Embracing the Gift
by orangepenguin86
Summary: In the aftermath of the battle for Solitude the Breton Dragonborn questions her choices. FDragonbornXUlfric and also eventual DragonbornxVilkas
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **This is the first fic I have written since motherhood turned my poor brain to mush! I would dearly love to improve my writing, so any constructive criticism would be very much appreciated. Contains spoilers for those who have not finished the civil war questline in game. F!DragonbornxUlfric to begin with - all the girls love a sexy Jarl!

PS: This chapter turned into smut fairly quickly. I regret nothing. :P

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><p>Elisif's private rooms had been decorated with particularly feminine furnishings, all silk and velvet drapes in soft colours. Vases of mountain flowers were dotted about the room, their sweet fragrance covering the slight scent of burning from the many fires outside in the sacked city. Elisif herself had been banished to one of her own guestrooms while Ulfric claimed her apartments for himself. The very same apartments she had shared with her husband, High King Torygg. Myrna could see Ulfric had already been putting his mark upon the place. Stormcloak banners adorned the walls, the guards who were to remain in Solitude had been given strict instructions that they were not to be removed even after Ulfric returned to his seat at Windhelm. Elisif would not soon forget whom she had sworn fealty to this day. A fire burned warmly in the hearth, and a large snow bear pelt had been thrown over the light green silken bedspread for his own personal comfort. It did not seem to bother him that he had all but murdered the bed's previous male occupant.<p>

Roars of laughter and drunken song echoed from the Great Hall, where the Stormcloak army were still celebrating their victory. Someone called for a toast to Jarl Ulfric, proclaiming him the next High King of Skyrim. The whoops and cheers filled the Blue Palace, and the sound of flagons and cups hammering on the table was nothing short of thunderous. Myrna did not miss the self-satisfied smirk on her Jarl's face as he removed his jet black cloak and placed it on a chair before him. She hung back in the doorway, wondering why she had been summoned and hoping it was not for the reasons she suspected.

"Close the door," he said, his tone commanding. Myrna did as she was bid, wishing she had slipped out of the hall earlier and unnoticed. She could have been in a bed at the Winking Skeever by now, resting her aching muscles and trying to forget the faces of the soldiers she had slain in the bloody battle for the city. What was the point of being a master of stealth if you felt bound by courtesy to say goodnight to the man you were hoping to avoid? He had wasted no time in asking her for a private word and, with all those eyes upon her, she had no choice but to follow him into his rooms and away from the safety of her drinking comrades. She turned back to Jarl Ulfric, his blue eyes glittering as he regarded her, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He knew he was making her feel uncomfortable. Gods, why did he have to be so handsome?

"I like you in a dress Stormblade," he purred in his thick Nordic accent, still smirking. "It is a welcome change from your Elven armour. You almost look like a woman."

"I took my armour to the smithy," she replied coolly, ignoring the obvious slight. "This was all I had."

Ulfric grinned and stepped towards her. She was trying to avoid his eye, he could tell, but her small stature was forcing her to look up at him. "And it looks good on you," he said, admiring the way the simple garment clung to her curves, the bodice allowing a hint of the charms beneath. "You've taken off your warpaint too. I am glad. It gives you the look of some gruesome mummer."

She bristled. "You have said yourself that my appearance is less than menacing without it."

That was indeed true. She was short, even by Breton standards, and not what you would call stocky as most warriors were expected to be. It was a marvel that she could lift even her sword and war axe, let alone wield them both at the same time with any degree of skill. But then Myrna Stormblade was full of surprises. Ulfric knew that better than most.

"I did say that," he conceded, "and so it serves on the battlefield. In my chambers however, this is a far more pleasing look." He noted with amusement that she was looking down at her feet now, a blush creeping slowlyacross her ruddy Breton cheeks. Reaching out, he lifted her chin with his finger, forcing her large brown eyes to meet his gaze. "You were magnificent out there today, Myrna. I had heard of your skill from others, but to witness it was something else. I am glad that we had you on our side."

She was truly humbled then. She never expected praise from anyone, this girl, even when it was deserved. "Thank you, my Jarl," she managed, quietly.

He allowed himself a grin at her embarrassment, and took a lock of her rich brown hair betwixt his thumb and forefinger. "You did not use the Voice," he mused, "Yet you are Dovakiin. Dragonborn. Why do you not use the gift the Divines have seen fit to give you?"

Myrna shifted her weight from foot to foot. It was a good question, and one she had not expected. "I... I am not sure how to use the power, in truth," she admitted, hesitantly. "It scares me, what it.. I... can do."

Ulfric regarded her shrewdly. It was strange to him that someone with such great ability should neglect to harness it. If he had been Dragonborn, as it had been rumoured for a time, he would have crushed the Imperial Army years ago - killed every last one of them with a word. It had taken him years of training with the Greybeards to learn to use only a few words of the dragon language before he had left for war. He suspected it was her Breton blood that made her so craven, the elf in her lineage. No Nord would ever dream of spurning such a blessing.

"It is a great sin to shy away from one's destiny," he said sternly. Myrna had no reply to that, knowing it was true. She had been told as much by another along her travels. She had never asked to be Dragonborn, it was too big. In fact there was a part of her – a hopeful part, that didn't believe that it was even real. She did not want glory, she did not want songs of her deeds, all she had ever wanted was to be a soldier and to fight the Imperial Legion. Now that they had taken Solitude, she should have felt some sense of accomplishment but all she felt was hollow, an emptiness in her heart.

She fiddled with her skirts, painfully aware of the silence in the room and the fact that the Jarl was staring at her. Poor judgement had clearly played a part in her decision to wear a dress this evening, she probably could have found some leggings and a modest blouse somewhere if she had cared to look.

It amused Ulfric greatly to see this change in her. She seemed such a timid little thing now, stripped of her armour and weapons, compared to the fierce warrior she had been a few hours hence, cutting down men left and right with her axe and sword in hand. Curling his arm around her waist he drew her closer to him, his fingers trailing through her hair. Myrna shuddered, wanting so much to resist him but finding herself unable to pull away. One look at his expression was enough to tell her he was fully aware of the hold he had over her, and what's more he was relishing in it, using his significant height advantage to hold her against him so close she could feel his breath upon her skin. Myrna silently cursed herself for being foolish enough to fall in love with such an arrogant, selfish man as Ulfric Stormcloak. He had shown his true colours today, that was for certain.

Ulfric let his hand wander from her waist, caressing the smooth curves beneath the simple wool dress and coming to a stop at the firm rise of her bottom, giving it a generous squeeze. Myrna gave a startled squeak, her cheeks flushing a deep crimson. Ulfric couldn't help but chuckle at her. Let her play the coy maid if it suited her – he knew he would have her screaming his name before morning. His ego swelled with the knowledge that he could undo the mighty Dragonborn with a word, a touch, a kiss. He lowered his face to hers, their breath intermingling, anticipating the sweet taste of her soft pink lips and the eagerness of her tongue. Before he could claim her however, she turned her face away from his.

"No."

That was unexpected. His hand loosened its grip on her hair and she seized the opportunity to shake her head free of him, braids flying, with a resolute look on her pretty face. Ulfric's brow furrowed as she took a step away from him, wrapping her arms around herself. "Is something amiss?" he finally asked.

Myrna steadied herself. Perhaps it was best not to say anything at all, but she knew if she didn't she would stew on it all night and the Nine knew how much she needed a good night's sleep. "You're still covered in Tullius' blood." she said, trying to keep the tremble from her voice.

The Jarl's eyebrows knitted even closer together as he looked down at himself. She was right, in the firelight he could see dark spots of the General's blood spattered across his tunic. He had not thought to change after the battle, he had been lost in the adoration of his men and their eagerness to celebrate their great triumph with meat and mead. "Far be it for you to be squeamish, Stormblade. You opened enough throats yourself today."

"Throats of men and women who met me head on, in combat," she said, brown eyes narrowed. "The old man was on his knees - he yielded. There was no honour in slaying him."

The ice blue eyes glittered furiously; she knew immediately she should have kept her thoughts to herself. "Honour?" he spat, "Was it honourable when the Empire bent the knee to the damn elves, allowing them to ban the worship of our God, Talos? Was it honourable of the Empire to blindly ignore the stench of corruption within its own army?" Ulfric paused, looking the Dragonborn dead in the eye. "Was it honourable, Stormblade, when Imperial guards forced a small girl to watch as they hanged her father from the gallows?"

Myrna's breath caught in her throat. She wished she had never told him that tale of her childhood. The memory of that day still haunted her in her nightmares; the gurgles of her father struggling for air as the rope failed to break his neck. He had died in choking agony, the Imperial guards laughing as the little Breton whelp screamed and cried for her criminal father. It had taken half an hour for her father to die but it had felt like forever. Tears sprang to her eyes, but she would not let them fall, not in front of _him_.

Ulfric walked to her and took her wrist, forcing her to turn around and look at him. Mentioning her father was a cheap shot, but it had crumbled her defences. "I saw the look in your eye that day at Helgen, Myrna. A look of pure hatred for the Imperial scum as you knelt before the headsman's block. I knew then we were kindred spirits, you and I." His hand snaked around her waist again, tenderly. "With Tullius' death we have cut the head from the Legion, tt was a necessary evil. Skyrim is now free from the Empire's clutches. They will sing songs of what we have achieved here today."

_And none will sing them louder or more often than you, Ulfric Stormcloak, _she thought wryly, allowing herself to be drawn to him once more. Ulfric grinned, she was his again. Unbuckling the belt around his tunic he slipped the rough wool garment off over his head and cast it aside, so that he stood before her in his boots and breeches. Gazing at his muscular chest, Myrna chewed her lip and wondered how long she could keep up with the pretense of disinterest when her body was aching for him. She sighed, resting her forehead against him. He had won.

"Permit me," he whispered into her ear, eliciting a quiet moan of pleasure from her as he kissed the sensitive spot just behind her earlobe. Desire coiling in her belly she raised her eyes to his and paused, savouring the moment and the look of pure lust in his eyes. There was no point in trying to resist any more. She traced her fingers along the hard muscles of his stomach and up to his chest, feeling the familiar contours and bumps of the scars that marked his skin. She had a fair few herself, but Ulfric had seen many more years of combat than she, and had endured torture besides. With her arms about his neck she drew herself up on her toes to meet his lips in what began as a gentle kiss, increasing in urgency as their tongues entwined, tasting and teasing.

It was only when they had to pause for air that she realised he had lifted her clear off the ground and was now carrying her to Elisif's feather bed, which he threw her upon without ceremony. He kicked his boots off and joined her on the mattress, smiling that devilish smile of his, unlacing her bodice with deft fingers. She giggled in spite of herself, a delightfully feminine sound that only served to spur him on. Unbound, her breasts spilled free, he seized one firmly in his hand, devouring her slender neck with kisses and nips until she was gasping to catch her breath.

"Hmm... yes, I like this dress on you very much," he purred, teasing the sensitive bud of her nipple between his fingers while his other hand slid the material from her shoulders. "I think, however, I would prefer it if you were wearing nothing at all."

If Myrna had a mind to protest his tender ministrations upon her flesh were keeping her more than occupied. Thus, he was able to peel off the simple garment unhindered, along with her fur-trimmed boots, which dropped to the wooden floor with a thud. He was surprised to find she had opted to wear black woolen stockings with her undergarments, but then, she was no Nord. He sometimes forgot how cold the winds of Skyrim were to those of foreign blood and besides, he rather liked how the tight material clung to her thighs as she writhed beneath him. Urged on by her hands in his hair and whispered moans, he moved to kiss the soft skin between stocking and her underthings and felt a rush of pride coupled with his intense lust – for here was the legendary Dragonborn, half naked and wanton in his bed once again.

Ulfric was hard as a rock now, his loins aching with need, pressing against the prison of this breeches. If he took her now, he would last no longer than a boy, and he would never let it be said that Ulfric Stormcloak could not satisfy a woman. He kissed his way back up her slender torso, gently avoiding the stark black bruises that she had acquired today in his service. She hissed with pleasure and arched her back as he seized her breast with his mouth, grazing the nipple with his teeth. Feeling his hardness Myrna wrapped her legs around him, pressing herself into him, two thin layers of clothing the only thing preventing him from having her then and there. With a throaty growl Ulfric seized her mouth again, her tongue dancing over his as he fought desperately to control himself, as well as her. She bit his lip in the frenzy of their kiss, moving her hips expertly against him, her hands knotted deep in his dirty-blond hair as she took him to the brink of oblivion with her gyrations. His hand found her undergarments and gave them a sharp tug.

"I think you had better take these off, before I tear them off you."

The look on her face was nothing short of wicked. She was the very image of a succubus, with the firelight reflected in her eyes and a saucy grin spreading across her features. "Is that your command, my Jarl?" she asked, feigning innocence.

"Yes it bloody well is, damn it woman!"

Myrna slid off her underthings and stockings too, leaving her naked as her name day and basking in his appreciative gaze. _Gods, she is beautiful, _he thought, trailing his fingertips up the inside of her thigh and allowing her mouth to meet his once again. He hesitated when his fingers came to the little mound between her thighs and she groaned at his teasing, her body begging him wordlessly for more. Knowing he had her completely at his mercy, he stroked the soft folds of her core with his fingers, marvelling at her heat and wetness.

"Ulfric..." she began, quieted by his mouth crushing hers, moaning and whimpering softly as he set to work, expertly playing her arousal to his advantage. With his fingers deep inside her he kneaded and rubbed at her most sensitive part with his thumb, revelling in her bucking and wriggling at his touch. It was not long until she reached her shivering climax, her tightening around his fingers causing his insides to jolt. He needed her now.

Myrna's head was swirling with bliss and her legs were still trembling lightly from the waves of pleasure that had crashed over her. It had taken Ulfric little time at all to discover how to push her to the edge and over into the abyss. As he knelt over her, fumbling for the laces of his breeches she sat up and began kissing down his stomach the course trail of dark blond hair that led to his groin. In one swift tug she undid his laces herself. Ulfric groaned as she took him in her soft hands, gripping him and stroking the length of him titillatingly - it was more than he could bear. Ulfric pushed his breeches further down his legs and kicked them to the floor with the rest of their abandoned clothing. He pushed her back down onto the bed and she willingly spread her thighs, the tip of his manhood pressing against her, inches away from bringing them the gratification they both craved. With her breath becoming ragged Myrna's hands found the small of his back, attempting to hurry him into her.

Ulfric Stormcloak would not be hurried.

When he was sure her had tortured her long enough, he finally thrust himself into her, nearly losing himself in her wetness and tightness, only managing to pull himself back at the last second when her nails raked his back and she cried out his name. Her legs wrapped around him once more and she moved against his thrusts, kissing and biting his broad shoulders and moaning her soft, sweet moans. She took advantage of a break in the rhythm to push against his chest in an attempt to roll him over. He chuckled, holding firm, but she was persistent. It was too easy to forget the strength she harboured in that lithe little body of hers. Placing his hands around her waist he relented and rolled onto his back, thoroughly at his leisure, palming her soft breasts as she rocked on her knees and leaned back, allowing him deep inside of her.

He did not miss the slight quiver before she tightened around him, calling his name over and over until she came again with a cry. Ulfric met her in her passion, spilling himself deep inside her with a low growling moan. Myrna fell against his chest, he could feel her heart beating together with his own as he wrapped his arms around her naked body.

He could not think of a better way to end the day.


	2. Chapter 2

_****_**A/N** Thanks to all those who faved the previous chapter, much appreciated! Again, any advice anyone can give would be much appreciated. No smut this time I'm afraid, but I'm sure there will be some before this story is done :) haha

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><p><em>Stupid, stupid, stupid.<em>

Myrna did not know how long she had lain awake, only that the fire had gone out some time ago, its faintly glowing embers the only light in the room. Ulfric had fallen asleep mere minutes after the final throes of their lovemaking – it had been easy for her to slip from his arms and lay next to him. She listened to his deep snores and stared blindly at the dark ceiling, silently berating herself for succumbing to her baser urges yet again.

Yet again, he had clicked his fingers and she had come running like some attention-starved puppy. She was furious with herself - she had really meant to resist him this time. Gods damn the man. He knew her too well; the right things to do, the right places to kiss her, how to utterly weaken her resolve and make her desperate for his touch. How she wished she could go back to just being his soldier and nothing more. It had been all so much easier then, before he kissed her for the first time and she had become his for the taking, captivated by his well-bred good looks and charismatic charm.

It had started as nothing more than carnal desire on both of their parts, in time becoming something far deeper, until Myrna could not be in the same room as the man without her heart skipping several beats. As much as she had tried to stop herself falling in love with Ulfric Stormcloak, knowing in her heat of hearts no good would ever come of it, her efforts had all been in vain.

Lady Mara had made a fool of her, of that there was no doubt.

She thought it highly unlikely that Ulfric reciprocated her love for him. Until now that had not mattered, she had been happy being his lover and nothing more. Now Ulfric was due to be crowned High King of Skyrim when the Moot finally deigned to make their decision. The first thing any good king should do is sire a legitimate heir. Myrna was not so naïve to think that such a thing could be done by her. The people of Skyrim would surely revolt if their King were to choose any less than a Nordic bride. The Greymanes and Black-Briars were most likely already grooming their unwed daughters to present as suitors to the as-yet unattached Jarl. However rationally she tried to view the situation, the unfortunate reality made her heart sink. She would not be able to endure watching him be loved by another and so, she would have to leave.

After the battle for Solitude came to its bloody conclusion, Ulfric himself had told her she would be free to roam Skyrim hereafter. Myrna decided to take his words at face-value, though doing so would make her heart ache. Perhaps it would become easier with time. She hoped it would be.

Silently she eased herself from under the bear furs and luxurious bedclothes and out into the chill of the room. With the fire out the icy draught from the window had free reign; it nipped at her naked flesh as she groped blindly for her clothing. For a few horrible moments she could not find her underthings and worried that they were underneath the covers somewhere or worse, under Ulfric's sleeping form. It would put a damper on her plans to sneak out somewhat if she were forced to wake him, but she did not want to be one of those women that left their underwear behind after lying with a man. Besides, it was likely freezing outside and she did not relish the thought of being without undergarments in the harsh winds of Skyrim.

By chance she stepped on the missing items as she shuffled around on the flagstones and tugged them on with her stockings underneath her dress. Her corset took some time to relace after Ulfric's hasty removal but finally she managed to get it looking almost as it should, displaying only a tasteful amount of her shoulders and only the very tops of her breasts. Myrna never felt all that comfortable in dresses. She found them quite restrictive, and it was hard to have any sort of a conversation with a man when he was addressing your chest rather than your face. Stepping into her boots, she wished she had brought a cloak with her of some sort, as much to hide behind as to keep out the cold.

With no bush or comb upon her person she was forced to try and remove the tangles in her hair by running her fingers through it. It wouldn't be perfect, but with any luck it would at least look adequately neat and not like she had spent the evening fornicating. That done, she was ready. Creeping to the door, she opened it a crack allowing dim light from the braziers at the end of the hall to leak into the room. By the grace of the Divines the hinges did not squeak.

Myrna willed herself not to look back, knowing full well that she would. In the gloom she could just make out the shape of Ulfric upon the bed, the bedclothes rising and falling gently with his snores. He had not moved since she had left the bed, deep in sleep. Myrna told herself it was better this way. Ulfric had made her no promises, given her no reason to think their relationship could exist anywhere else but the bedchamber, but still it hurt to end whatever it was they had. She reasoned that it would only hurt all the more if she were to stay. Myrna stole one last agonising glance at the man she loved, then, with a deep breath, she slipped out of the room.

Myrna walked slowly through the streets of Solitude towards the Inn. Most of the siege fires that had spread through Solitude were now extinguished, helped in part by the rain and sleet that had fallen in the hours since the fighting had ceased. It was not as cold as she had expected, though there was a chill wind that carried with it the faint smell of burnt timber and blood. Her path to the inn was mostly clear, the majority of the bodies having already been gathered up. She passed a cluster of wooden carts containing fallen Imperial soldiers, stripped of their armour and weapons which would now be melted down and reforged to arm more Stormcloak soldiers. Grimly, she wondered how many of the dead had been felled by her own blades. Through the bloody haze of battle it was impossible to tell, the only thing going through her mind was the thought that she must kill, or be killed herself_. _It had served her well, for here she was, while her foes lay piled in handcarts awaiting disposal.

Her thoughts returned to General Tullius - the way he had died today still did not sit right with her. However Ulfric had tried to justify it, in her opinion he should have been taken prisoner, not slaughtered like a dog after he had thrown his sword down and yielded. Myrna had as much reason to hate the Empire as any, she always imagined the head of the Imperial Army to be some sort of monster, but in reality the General was just a man. A man whose best years had long since passed, and one who deserved a better death than the one he had received. She had seen the look on Ulfric's face as he delivered the killing blow – almost as if he had taken pleasure in it. Had he looked like that when he had slain High King Torygg? The thought made her guts churn.

As she neared the inn she noticed there was a man sitting huddled in the doorway. Her initial instinct was to try to avoid him, but he was sat right on the front step and she was given no choice but to approach the stranger. When she got closer, Myrna was pleased to find he was no stranger at all. Perched on the Winking Skeever's threshold was Ralof of Riverwood. His head was lowered, forehead resting upon his knees but she would know that golden hair and those braids anywhere. Ralof had been there at Helgen, where a dragon of all things had saved them from execution. Myrna felt a pang for her brother-in-arms. Ralof was a great fighter, though the harsh realities of war caught up with him more often than most. Myrna quietly sat down on the step next to him and placed a comforting hand upon his shoulder.

He looked up at her with surprise, as if he had not even heard her approach. "Iceveins... or is it Stormblade now?" he smiled, his slurred words betraying the fact that he was more than a little drunk.

She returned his smile with one of her own. She had been given so many nicknames during her time with the Rebellion that even she found it confusing. "Myrna will do well enough," she said.

Ralof smiled again, though his eyes looked trouble. He took a swig from the bottle that dangled between his fingers. He offered it to Myrna and she took a tentative sip. It was spiced wine, not a good one at that, but she was grateful for its warmth as it slid down her throat.

"Does the killing ever get easier?" he mused, looking out across the dark city. Myrna was unsure if he was talking to her or to himself. "We have bested the Empire this day, the greatest triumph, and all I can think of is the men I have killed. Their families. Their children."

"If it was not them, it would be you," she said simply. "We did what we did for Skyrim, and for the Gods. Now, you need to rest my friend. You'll freeze to death if you sit out here moping all night. I don't think your sister would be happy if she were to hear you had survived the war and then died of a chill afterward."

He laughed at that, allowing her to pull him to his feet. "I don't have the coin for a room," he admitted, leaning on her heavily as she led him into the warmth of the inn.

"I have a room," Myrna replied, unable to help herself from chuckling a little at her friend's inebriated state. The inn's common room was all but deserted, save for one patron dozing under a hat in the corner and the tavernkeep, Corpulus, counting up his gold from the day's trade upon the bar.

"You're lucky to get in," Corpulus said stiffly, "I was just about to bar the door."

"They barred the door of Castle Dour, for all the good it did them." Myrna replied sourly. "I paid for a bed, and I mean to use it."

Corpulus folded his arms, glaring at her from beneath a furrowed brow. The citizens of Solitude had no love for the Stormcloaks, as was to be wholly expected. Still, Corpulus seemed to have no problem accepting their gold. He sneered and watched her guide the stumbling captain towards the room she had rented from him earlier.

"Not for me to judge, unwed woman bringing a man back to her room."

"Then don't," she spat, slamming the door behind her. It was such a relief to be alone at last. Save for Ralof of course, who was apparently thinking much the same thing.

At first Myrna wasn't sure if the arm he placed around her was just to steady himself. When he leaned in to kiss her however, she knew it wasn't. She had to laugh as she pushed him away gently.

"You are drunk, Ralof."

"A little," he grinned, swaying.

She pulled him down and kissed him firmly on his forehead, a sisterly kiss of affection. It was easy then to push him onto the little bed, he collapsed upon the straw mattress with no resistance at all. "Sleep my friend," she urged. "Come the morning everything will seem better."

He smiled and nodded, closed his eyes and was asleep within seconds. Ralof was a good man. She did not think for one second that he was genuinely attracted to her, rather that he was looking for a little comfort in the wrong place. The drink had simply fogged his wits, as it was wont to do.

With a sigh, Myrna seated herself at the foot of the bed, shoving the blond Nord's leg further over to make room. He did not even stir. How she envied him. It would have been the easiest thing in the world for her to lie down and go to sleep at that moment. She had never known exhaustion like this – every muscle screamed for her to rest, and the pain of her wounds had reached an almost intolerable level now that the adrenaline keeping it at bay was running out. Elven leather armour was effective at keeping the enemy's blades from piercing her skin, yet each powerful stab and thrust left an angry bruise in its wake. Her whole body was covered in them and she fancied she had more than one bruised rib.

Rubbing her sore stomach absently, Myrna's pondered on the path her life should take now that the Civil War was won. The War had given her purpose, and what she had felt was a noble outlet for her violent hatred of the Imperial Legion. Now that it was over it had left a gaping hole where she had hoped to find some sort of fulfilment, and in truth she was unsure if she could even make a home for herself in Skyrim any longer. In her dealings with Nords it was clear to her that many were prejudiced against other races, especially those of Elven stock. Ulfric Stormcloak called it patriotism. Myrna called it outright racism. She had not been deaf to the hateful barbs of "Breton mongrel" and "manmeri scum" that had been thrown at her when she first joined the Stormcloak rebellion. Although she had proven herself to her comrades in arms countless times, she still bore the sting of their words to this day.

She had a house in Whiterun – the place where they had named her Dragonborn. She remembered that day bitterly. The Jarl of the time, Barlgruuf, bade her to help the city guard take down a dragon that was attacking outside the gates. This she had done, though near paralysed with fear, firing arrow after arrow from the guard tower when she could stop her hands shaking enough to put notch to bow. The beast was massive, all wings, tail and teeth, with breath that could cook a man in his armour where he stood. Against all odds, they had slain it, though many Whiterun guards and would-be heroes lost their lives in the effort.

When she approached the massive corpse, littered with arrows like an enormous pincushion, something happened that she could not explain. The dragon combusted into flames before their eyes, reduced to bare bones in seconds by some unseen force. Ashes began swirling round her head, turning the world white as strange whispers echoed in her ears. Somehow she knew it was the voice of the dragon that lay before them. Totally bewildered, she looked to the guards that stood around the great monster, assuming they had heard it too. They only stared at her in alarm, naming her Dovahkiin – a dragonslayer. They had all seen her absorb the dragon's soul.

Myrna had tried to tell them they were being absurd until she felt something... a presence, in her mind. The dragon was inside her, part of her, looking through her eyes. She could hear its voice, whispering, her insides tingling with raw new power. When the rabble surrounding her challenged her to use the voice, it was the dragon that had spoken the word _"Fus", _knocking the crowd backwards as if they had been struck by a sudden gust. That had impressed them. It had terrified Myrna.

They had told her to make a pilgrimage to the Throat of the World, the mountain seat of the Greybeards, to seek training in the Thu'um – the Way of the Voice. She had ignored the suggestion, and when the dragon spoke to her she ignored it too. Now she didn't hear it at all. The people were mistaken. She was just a woman, a warrior trained to kill men, not a legendary dragonslayer. After two encounters with dragons, Myrna was loathe to suffer a third.

She had found her niche in Whiterun among the Companions that made their home in the city. A guild of seasoned warriors, they had made no mention of the fact that she was supposedly the Dovahkiin. In fact, Myrna wasn't sure that they even knew. They had accepted her, as they accepted any with combat skill and the courage to fight for those who could not. She was sure they would welcome her back if she returned to their halls. Well, at least most of them would.

The Companions would have work for her too, better that she kept busy than spent her time on her own, stewing on her many mistakes. Even if it did not work out in Whiterun, there would be something else. Myrna was resourceful. Her father had seen to that, and her training had made her more than capable of taking care of herself.

Her head was heavy with the throb of fatigue but she forced herself to stand, ignoring the protestations of her tired bones and the clicking in her joints. It would be light soon - she wanted to be gone from the city before dawn. In spite of herself, she wondered if Ulfric would even notice she had gone. Even if he did, she surmised he would be too busy building armies in his captured cities to lose any sleep over the matter. All the better for her, though it pained her to think it.

Kneeling, she opened the battered old chest next to the bed and was pleased to find the items she had stored within were still as she left them. She glanced over at Ralof, who was snoring fitfully and, deciding he was most definitely asleep, she slipped out of her dress and pulled on her Stormcloak uniform, feeling instantly at ease in the familiar blue tunic and breeches. It still wasn't her usual armour, but there was no way she could retrieve it from the blacksmith at this late hour. Besides, no one would question a Stormcloak soldier travelling alone.

Her little bag of coins was still tucked safe and sound inside the lining of her cloak. Myrna hoped it would be enough to buy her a ride by cart somewhere, that way she might stand a chance of actually getting some sleep tonight. She wrapped the cloak around herself, pulling the hood down over her face. If she were just a little taller, she would have looked like any other Stormcloak soldier. It would have to do. With her sword at her right hip and waraxe strapped to her left, Myrna left Ralof alone in the little room, hoping that they might meet again some day as she headed back out into the dark of the night.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Thanks again for all the faves and to xxTrigger for your lovely review - it really made my day when I read it thank you so much! :D

I'm changing direction with the story for the time being, toying with some DragonbornxVilkas so may contain some spoilers for the Companions Quests now too. What can I say, I do love a sweaty dirty werewolf warrior!

Anyway, hope you enjoy!

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><p>Vilkas was reading alone in the mead hall, his shield-brothers and sisters sleeping in the floors below. After being disturbed one too many times by some of the other residents' nocturnal activities, he found he preferred the relative peace and quiet of the upper levels at night for his study. The Companions generally took to bed early, in order that their bodies were well rested for the training that began at dawn. It was not an actual rule - each man and woman was their own master at Jorrvaskr – it was simply a habit that had been formed over time, and one that suited Vilkas well.<p>

He was sure his fellow warriors were perplexed by his fondness for the written word. Certainly his brother Farkas could not understand it – but then you could fill countless tomes with things that Farkas did not understand. Sometimes Vilkas envied his brother's simple approach to life. Farkas lived in the moment, he did not feel threatened by things that were not right in front of him and if he ever did feel threatened, he simply sliced whatever had irked him in two with his greatsword. That usually solved the problem. Vilkas could not live like that. He had to know all there was to know about the enemies he might face and the proper tactics to defeat them. Luckily for him the Harbingers of the Companions had kept an impressive library spanning many centuries, enabling him to sate his thirst for knowledge whenever he found the time.

He was leafing through an interesting volume concerning the Battle of Sancre Tor when the great pine door in the middle of the hall creaked open, so softly that he would not have even heard it if he had not seen it happen from the corner of his eye. Surprising him further, a hooded Stormcloak soldier slipped in from the street, from the look of their height and build most definitely female. She was obviously well practised in stealth as her footfalls made no sound upon the wooden floor.

Unfortunate for her then that she had failed to notice Vilkas in his seat at the back corner of the room.

Vilkas' hand went to the pommel of his greatsword instinctively. It was practically unheard of for the city guards to visit Jorrvaskr, even when the Empire had control of Whiterun; the Companions kept themselves to themselves and caused no trouble for the authorities to concern themselves with. A spy, perhaps? He dismissed the idea almost immediately, reasoning it would be a pretty poor spy that crept into a building wearing the colours of their order in such a brazen manner. With growing interest he kept his silence and watched.

The Stormcloak was soaked through from the rain that had been pouring since evenfall, fat drips fell from her hood and splashed to the floor where a small puddle was forming at her feet. The woman cast a quick glance around the hall, still making no indication that she was aware she was being watched. Her hands clumsy and numb with cold, she undid the large bronze brooch that held her hooded cloak about her shoulders and shrugged it off, revealing her face. As the heavy wet garment fell to the ground, Vilkas raised his eyebrows in surprise... for here before him, limping towards the firepit, was the Harbinger.

She was thinner than he remembered, her chestnut hair was longer and unkempt almost to the point of being matted. Her face, usually streaked with stark red war paint was instead streaked with grime and dirt – but it was her. One look at her eyes, large and brown and almond-shaped, removed any trace of doubt.

If he had still had the wolf's blood he would have known it was her before she even opened the door. Vilkas could still recall her scent even now, like apple and warm spice, with a hint of something else that he could never quite place. He wondered briefly if he should announce his presence, then quickly decided against it. From the way Myrna had entered Jorrvaskr it was clear she did not want to alert anybody to her arrival, and besides, he would be the last person she would want to see.

He had been truly vile to her the last time they had spoken, after his mentor Kodlak had been brutally murdered by a group known as the Silver Hand. Half mad with grief he had raved at her, outright blamed her for not being there, knowing even if she had the outcome of the battle would have most likely been the same. It was not until afterwards that Vilkas realised she had as much reason to grieve as he did, but before he could speak to her again she had gone. Called to arms for Ulfric Stormcloak's assault on Solitude, he had not known if she would ever return. In his heart of hearts he hoped she would.

He watched as Myrna held her hands over the fire pit and closed her eyes, allowing the heat to wake her frozen fingers. With the light of the flames on her face he could see the dark hollows under her red-rimmed eyes, the haunted, drawn look of pure exhaustion upon her features. A small gasp escaped her and she collapsed onto her knees, shivering uncontrollably, leaning so close to the fire he thought for a moment she might well fall in. He had been right not to announce himself; the Harbinger would not have wanted anyone to witness her like this.

Vilkas did not know how long she sat motionless before the fire, only that his legs had begun to cramp by the time she rose. Stifling coughs as well as she was able, Myrna gathered up her wet cloak and grabbed a hunk of bread from the table before padding silently to what had become her room at the end of the mead hall.

Myrna woke from her dreamless sleep not feeling exactly refreshed but all the better for the experience. All her clothes were completely wet through from her journey in the icy rain; she had been simply too tired to look for anything dry to sleep in. She didn't even know if her clothes would still be kept here - it had been so long since her last visit. Thankfully the many furs she kept in the chest by the bed were still there, piled atop the blankets they kept her as warm and snug throughout the night as if she had worn three layers of nightclothes. She lay with her eyes closed, not wanting to leave the soft comfort and warmth of her bed, enjoying the peace and quiet of her own company before the inevitable fuss her presence would cause among her shield-brothers and sisters.

To her immense relief the feeling had fully come back to her hands; though they still stung a little they showed no signs of blackness which could be only a good thing. Myrna had seen the effects of frostbite when out in the field with the Stormcloaks – her career as a warrior would be well and truly over if she were to lose her fingers or worse. Sitting up in bed, she ignored the pounding behind her eyes and looked around her little room. To her surprise it was much as she had left it, though it was far tidier; the books that were usually strewn across her desk were now stacked neatly on a shelf and the weapons she had left behind had been polished until they shone. Myrna smiled. The housekeeper, Tilma, had obviously been making sure her room was fit for her return, despite the fact that nobody had known when that would be. Myrna had not even known herself until she left Solitude two days ago.

The journey from Solitude had been long and dull. The farmer that she paid to take her to Whiterun would only take her as far as Rorikstead on the meager amount of Septims she could offer. He hinted that he might consider taking her further, depending on how obliging she could be while they stopped over at the Frostfruit Inn. Myrna decided to make the rest of the journey herself, but not before she dealt the lecherous worm a good slap for his suggestions. Luckily the walk from Rorikstead was more or less uneventful, albeit rather lonely, miserable and freezing cold. By the time she staggered through the gates of Whiterun she was suffering with a nasty cold; the temptation to abandon her plans of getting to Jorrvaskr and to bed down at Breezehome instead was almost too much to bear. She was almost at the front door of her household when she realised she could not face Lydia. The housecarl had a good heart, but was a mite overprotective of her Thane. Myrna could not face a barrage of questions at that particular time, so, as much as her sore feet begged for her to stop, she pressed on.

She stretched out fully on the bed, hoping to alleviate some of the ache in her bones. The aching in her heart was still there, though she fancied it had lessened a little now that she had put some distance between herself and Jarl Ulfric. As much as she told herself she had done the right thing, doubt niggled deep within her gut. Was it possible that she was wrong about him? Could it be that her feelings for him were not totally unrequited? When they were alone he was always as passionate as she, but in the company of others he treated her much like any other soldier. While he had never asked her outright to keep their relationship quiet it was always evident in his manner towards her then, a coolness that made her wonder if he was only using her for pleasure and nothing more. She had been no blushing virgin when she first came to his bed, and was not above indulging in the pleasures of the flesh for its sake alone, but the feelings she had for Ulfric Stormcloak she had not felt for any man before. When he held her to his heart after they made love, Myrna did not think she was imagining that he cared for her too, though he had never once said the words.

It was over now, regardless. Myrna had seen to it herself by leaving Solitude with no hint as to where she was going. Of course, if Ulfric wanted to find her she was sure it would not be too troublesome, but she did not think it was something he would concern himself with now that he was due to be crowned High King. Her Stormcloak tunic lay where she had tossed it the night before, in a wet pile with the rest of her clothing. Her first thought was to burn it once it dried, ultimately she decided that she would ask Tilma to have it cleaned and stored somewhere safe instead. Whatever she did with it, she would not be wearing it again. Ulfric had released her from his service and now she meant to move on, whether he had truly expected her to or not.

The faint murmur of conversation rose from the hall, accompanied by the sound of cups and plates against the great oak table. She recognised the sounds of the Companions sitting down to their afternoon meal. The sweet aroma of roasted meat soon followed the noise, making her stomach growl and her mouth water. Myrna lingered in the warmth of her bed for a few moments more before reluctantly pulling herself to her feet, covering her nakedness with a blanket as she crossed shivering to her dresser. All her old clothing was there, as if she had never even left. She chose a pair of doeskin leggings and a simple linen shirt, the bruises on her torso still too painful for her lace a corset properly. The shirt seemed to cover her well enough, though just to be sure she wrapped a loose robe around herself. She would suffer enough questions from her shield-brothers and sisters as it was, it would not do to give them all an eyeful of her bosom over dinner.

She checked her appearance in her polished silver hand mirror and almost cried out in shock at what she saw. Her skin had always been pale - now it was tinted grey, her eyes sunken and surrounded by dark shadows, betraying the exhaustion that had taken hold of her. Her hair looked as if she had recently done battle with a troll, in which the troll had emerged victorious. A glimpse of her cleavage was no longer of any concern; she could not allow the Companions to see her looking like this.

She hacked at her hair with a brush and swept it back into a loose braid, uncovering the high cheekbones that she was often complemented on. Not much could be done for her pallor at present, but mead flowed at the Companions' table like water and with any luck a couple of mugs might bring some colour back to her features. Painting on a look that she hoped was calm and collected, she opened the bedroom door.

The inhabitants of the mead hall looked up from their meal of roasted goat and baked potatoes at the unexpected sound of creaking hinges. Immediate silence flooded the room as all eyes fell upon Myrna; if she blanched at all under their gaze she did not show it as she made to take her seat at the feasting benches.

When he had picked his jaw up from the floor, Farkas was the first to greet her. "Good to see you, Myrna!" he cried, rising to envelop her in a hearty embrace that near lifted her off her feet. "When did you get back?"

"Last night. It was late, so I didn't want to wake anybody."

He was squeezing her bruises, but Myrna couldn't bring herself to care. Farkas was never backward in coming forward when it came to showing affection. His twin brother however, was an entirely different kettle of fish. Even as the Companions were gathering around her Vilkas remained in his seat, an unfathomable look upon his stern features. When he met her eye he raised his mug to her, though he did not smile.

Myrna had no time to think much on Vilkas or his strange moods. After giving her another bone-crunching hug, Farkas finally set her down upon the bench between himself and Aela the Huntress, who smiled at her with a warmth she was not usually prone to.

"We have heard news of the Stormcloaks' victory at Solitude, Harbinger," Aela said, pouring Myrna a generous cup of mead.

Being called 'Harbinger' still felt strange. The title had passed to her from Kodlak Whitemane, the previous Harbinger, and she did not feel it was wholly deserved.

"The battle must have been bloody." Aela ventured, prompting a response.

"Aye," was all Myrna could manage to say, taking a long draught of the mead. It was good and sweet, just as she remembered.

Ria, one of the younger and more enthusiastic recruits, looked at Myrna with something akin to awe. "Did you kill many men?" she asked, her eyes wide and shining.

Myrna found she could not help but smile at her young shield-sister. As far as she knew, Ria had only ever hunted and killed wild beasts so far, under Aela's watchful eye. To kill a bear was a great feat, she could not dispute that, but to kill a man was something else entirely, and not something one should seek to take pleasure in.

"I killed enough," she said honestly, reaching for the platter of baked potatoes which Farkas passed to her. "I do not wish to speak of it today. My time with the Stormcloaks has come to an end, I wish to devote my service to the Companions." She smiled sheepishly, "That is, if you will have me of course."

Farkas laughed at that, a deep booming laugh that seemed to fill the entire hall. "Of course we will! You are our Harbinger, is that not so brother?"

All eyes turned to Vilkas expectantly. It was no secret that he and Myrna had quarrelled shortly before she left for battle. Taking his time to finish his mouthful, Vilkas met his brother's eye.

"She is. Though I hope she is going to stay more than a week this time," he said.

Myrna's eyes narrowed to glare at him. "As I said, I am no longer a soldier. I am here to stay."

"Very well then."

Seeming to think that settled the matter, Farkas clapped Myrna on the back and continued eating. Myrna tried to concentrate on the meal before her, though she could still feel Vilkas' silver eyes boring into her. It seemed to her that he still had many things he wanted to say. He could wait.

To her dismay the tickle at the back of her throat refused to let up and she was forced to cough, though she tried her best to suppress it. Farkas thumped her on the back once more, nearly sending her across the table and not helping the situation one jot. When the fit finally subsided, she looked up to see her shield-brothers and sisters eyeing her with concern.

"Are you unwell?" asked Ria, quietly.

"Nothing but a bad cold," Myrna replied, hoping it was true. "A good meal and a healing potion and I'll be fine."

"Here," said Torvar, reaching across the table to refill her mug with mead. "The best healing potion I've found yet, mark my words." He attempted to surreptitiously fill Njada Stonearm's mug, who was seated to his right, but she grabbed his wrist before he could pour.

"I can pour my own drink, Torvar" she growled, giving him a warning look. Njada was surly at the best of times, and did not suffer fools or borderline louts like Torvar gladly. Vilkas smirked to himself at this blatant display of dislike on her part – it had been Njada and Torvar's night time frolics that had kept him from sleep the night before. Torvar was ofttimes drunk, and had a crude sense of humour that women mostly found offensive. If he could tumble Njada, the man must have some talent that wasn't obvious to the general populace.

"To your health, Myrna," Aela said, raising her mug into the air. "As soon as it is returned, we shall return to the hunt. Don't want those Silver Hand bastards thinking we've forgotten about them."

"I'll drink to that," agreed Farkas, grinning as he downed his mug in one quick gulp.

The other Companions voiced their assent and joined in the toast; Myrna felt the tips of her ears blush red at the complement. It was as if she had never been away - she knew she had been right to return. The Companions were aptly named, their camaraderie was as legendary as their fighting skills. They were more like a family than a group of mercenaries, where race and religious beliefs genuinely did not matter so long as you could hold your own in a fight. Jorrvaskr was the only place in Skyrim Myrna had ever felt she truly belonged, and it was here that she meant to stay.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **Thanks for the reviews and faves! I'm hoping this chapter clears up a few questions - I'm being a bit naughty and not following the Companions storyline to the letter, but it didn't make sense for me to make Myrna a werewolf. She has enough trouble dealing with the Dragonborn issue as it is, inflicting lycanthropy on her too would be just plain cruel! Haha :D

As for the non-magic issue, Myrna is based on my Dragonborn in game who is Breton but I am rubbish and couldn't handle the controls for casting spells, so we stick to hacking and slashing as I kill less followers that way. Seriously, I barely ever use shouts for the same reason *n00bface*

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><p>Vilkas hesitated outside of the Harbinger's bedchamber, wondering whether to knock or to leave the matter that was pressing him until the morning. The rest of the Companions had retired to their beds some time ago, most of whom roaring drunk after their afternoon meal had turned into a mead-soaked feast in honour of their shield-sister's return. It went without saying that there would be more than a few sore heads when the morning came. Vilkas had a fair amount of mead himself - he was going to need it to say what he planned to say to the Harbinger. He knew he would not rest easy until he had – it would be best to get it out of the way as soon as possible.<p>

He knocked firmly on the door three times. There was a babble of female voices inside, muffled through the thick wood. After a moment, Myrna's housecarl, a stern Nord woman whose name he could not recall, opened the door just enough to glare at him through the gap between the frame.

"My Thane is not accepting visitors at this hour," she said coldly.

Myrna's voice came from within the chamber. "Who is it, Lydia?"

"Farkas."

"Vilkas," he corrected, gritting his teeth.

There was a brief pause as Myrna considered. "Very well, let him in."

Lydia was clearly perturbed by her answer. Wide-eyed, she turned to face her mistress, still careful to block the door with her body should Vilkas dare to try and steal a glimpse into the room.

"But, my lady, you are not dressed..."

"That is easily remedied," came the reply, with a slosh of bathwater as she stood in the tub. "Let him in Lydia, I will be ready in a moment."

Lydia's eyes met his with undisguised mistrust as she grudgingly complied with her Thane's wishes. As he stepped through the threshold and into the room Vilkas could not quite contain a subversive grin at the housecarl's obvious reluctance. Perhaps she thought he had planned to catch Myrna bathing. He had not, though a quite delicious image of his Harbinger reclining naked in the tub crept into his mind regardless.

The bathtub sat before the fireplace, the water sending tendrils of scented steam rising into the air and filling the room with the sweet fragrance of honey and apple. Myrna herself was dressing behind a decorated screen, the clothing she had previously been wearing at the feasting table strewn among the furs that covered her bed. Following his gaze, Lydia was quick to snatch up the abandoned attire to save her mistress' embarrassment, but too late - Vilkas had already spied Myrna's undergarments in the pile, white fur-trimmed cotton. Very cosy indeed.

Finally, Myrna emerged from the screen, wearing a green velvet robe that tied at the waist , embroidered in silver thread that shone in the firelight. Her wet hair was piled into a loose bun and held with a pin, drawing it back from her face. Her eyes betrayed nothing of the fatigue he was sure she must be feeling. She took a seat before the fire, allowing the heat from the flames to dry the dampness from her bare legs. Myrna gestured for Vilkas to take the seat in front of her, and he did, leaving Lydia standing awkwardly with the laundry bundled in her arms.

"Would you have those washed for me, Lydia? Then you may return to Breezehome. I have no more need of you this evening."

Lydia glanced at Vilkas, then back to Myrna questioningly. "But, the bathwater... I need to..."

"I will have Tilma see to it in the morning," Myrna replied. "You may leave us."

If Lydia was going to argue she thought better of it when she saw the pointed look on her mistress' face. With a clumsy bow she swept out of the room, closing the door behind her quietly. Myrna focused her gaze on Vilkas, her strange almond eyes regarding him shrewdly until he began to feel uncomfortable, unsure whether he should speak first or wait for her.

"So," she said, breaking the thick silence that had fallen. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

It was a simple question, though Vilkas did not miss the bitterness veiled within her tone. Clearly the disagreement they had had the night before she had left for war was still fresh in her mind. He cleared his throat. Better to just come out and say what he came to say, then he could go back to his quarters with a clear conscience.

"I came to apologise."

Myrna said nothing - at first he was not sure if she had heard him. Then, folding her arms across her chest she settled back in the chair, staring at him expectantly as if she was waiting for him to say more.

Vilkas set his jaw. Perhaps this would be more difficult than he thought.

"I... wanted to apologise for what I said to you before you left. And for what I said the night that Kodlak died. I was speaking in anger, it was not your fault that he..."

She raised a hand to quiet him and he broke off, relieved that she had stopped him before he began babbling. Though Vilkas always considered himself to be good with words, apologies had never been his strong point. The corners of Myrna's mouth turned up slightly to form a small smile, suggesting she was all too aware of how awkward he felt sitting before her now.

"I accept your apology, Vilkas," she said measuredly. " I know how much you cared for Kodlak, he was your mentor, almost like a father to you and Farkas. You needed someone to blame - I understand that. But I think you know that even if I had been there that night, even if we could have defeated the Silver Hand, Kodlak was still dying. Surely to die in battle is far more honourable than to die a sick man in his bed, stripped of his dignity and crippled by the Rot as he so feared? What is it you Nords say - 'May you die with a sword in your hand...'?"

Vilkas could find no argument to that, as much as it vexed him. With a weary sigh he ran a hand across his face and through his hair. For a moment he wondered if this was how Farkas felt, knowing he should say something but somehow the right words proving elusive. He would have much preferred it if she had thrown the apology back in his face, or yelled at him - anything rather than have her be so damned reasonable and understanding.

"I grieved for Kodlak too," she continued when he was not forthcoming with a response. "Though I did not have the honour of knowing him as well or for as long as you did, it was enough for me to see that he was a great man. It is not easy to get by in Skyrim if you are not a Nord; Kodlak accepted me when I came to Jorrvaskr despite my race, even though most thought me a milk-drinker."

Myrna grinned at him teasingly and Vilkas felt his expression soften a little despite himself. He had strongly advised Kodlak against allowing the 'Breton pup' to join their ranks, but Kodlak, believer in people as he was, had seen something in Myrna and had given her a chance. Vilkas had to admit she was a formidable fighter, strange though it was that a woman of Breton blood should shun magic as a weapon. With sword and axe in hand she could melee with the best of them; what she lacked in size and brutality she made up for in speed and accuracy. As a replacement for Kodlak however, she was sorely lacking.

"You truly are planning on staying at Jorrvaskr for good, then?" he asked, unable to disguise the disdain in his tone. "You will act as our Harbinger, and not go running off to war the next time Ulfric Stormcloak calls his banners?"

The mention of the name caused Myrna's stomach to lurch, though she took care not to show it in front of the surly warrior. She regarded him thoughtfully. If he wanted to argue with her again on the subject, she would not give him the satisfaction.

"I am no longer a Stormcloak , as I have already told you once tonight. I can pledge my allegiance wholly to the Companions from this day forth. If I had not sworn my oath to the Stormcloaks first I would not have even gone to Solitude, but I gave my word and I meant to honour it."

She began to rub at her temples where a migraine was threatening. Vilkas continued to say nothing, silently gazing at her from beneath dark eyebrows. He could tell there was more to her sudden return from the army than she was willing to share, but he would not press the matter tonight. It would keep.

"Look, Vilkas, I know you and I have never seen eye to eye on many things. We both know it should have been you that Kodlak named to be his successor, but he chose me. I know not why. I have never been a leader, I'm not even that good at being a follower, most of my life I've just muddled along by myself. I've never really been a part of anything that I really cared about, until I joined your order. I joined the Stormcloaks because I wanted to fight the Imperial Legion in some... misguided sense of vengeance for my father. I see now that it was folly. I want to be a Companion, and the best Harbinger I can be. My place is here." Despite her attempts to reign in her emotions she was angry now, dark eyes glittering in the light from the fire. "Is that good enough for you?"

He met her eyes with a look that bordered on insolent. This was better – the Myrna he remembered, so easy for him to rile with a few choice words. "I'd say that's good enough."

"Well... good."

Myrna rose from the chair and stalked towards her dresser, pouring herself a glass of water from the pitcher there in the vain hope that it might help her to regain her composure. Vilkas watched her as she leaned over the wooden table, wondering if she was aware that she was giving him a rather wonderful view of her ample cleavage in the reflection of the mirror. Most likely she was not, though he enjoyed it all the same.

"I think," he said after several long moments had passed. "That Kodlak saw something in you that was not obvious to me when you first came to our halls. You have proven you are no milk-drinker, woman. You proved it when you took on that nest of hagravens alone like the bloody-minded fool you are."

He spoke brusquely, but Myrna was sure there was a compliment in there somewhere. She turned to face him, searching his stern features for some sign that he was mocking her.

Vilkas returned her thoughtful gaze with a cool one of his own, taking in her sensual curves and the strange, almost elven beauty of her high cheekbones and dark, mysterious eyes beneath their long lashes. He could hardly be blamed for thinking she would not have the mettle to be a decent fighter – without her armour she looked far too delicate, more suited to needlework than swordplay. After a few moments he thought he had best continue speaking, lest it became obvious that he was ogling her.

"Kodlak saw the beastblood for what it was – not a blessing but a curse. With your help he was able to find the cure he once thought impossible. Now his spirit rests in Sovngarde, as will mine and Farkas' when our time comes."

Myrna considered for a moment, not sure of his meaning. "You and Farkas...?"

"While you were away at war, we returned to Ysgramor's tomb to banish the wolf spirits from our souls. Only Aela remains a werewolf now. I assume that she accepts such a life in the hope that she may be reunited with Skjor in the eternal Hunting Grounds when she passes. That is her choice. My brother and I are human - whole once again, and we are both grateful to you for giving us the choice that once did not exist to us."

His voice cracked with emotion, just a little, but it was there. Myrna felt suddenly bewildered at this outpouring of gratitude from the warrior whom she had always considered so aloof in all their dealings before this one. The dubious gift of lycanthropy had once been offered to her as her initiation into the Circle by Aela and her mate, Skjor. Myrna had declined, though the beastblood was not without its temptations. In the end, she decided that the boost to her speed and strength was not worth the potential hazards of the Change. All it would take was one person to witness her transformation into the wolf and she would be putting herself and the Companions in mortal danger. Though Aela and Skjor seemed to embrace the primal side of their nature, Myrna was not sure if she would be able to control the dangerous power of the wolf-spirit herself. It was for that very reason she had ceased using magic in battle – even when successfully cast her spells missed their mark more often than they found it. For her a blade was safer, more predictable.

The fact that her fellows were werewolves did not faze her in the slightest. By that time she had seen far stranger things, the return of the dragons to name just one. Aela and Skjor were not happy that she had refused them, but she swore to keep their secret and it was not long until Kodlak welcomed her into the Circle on her own merit.

"You do not miss the beastblood?" she asked Vilkas quietly.

"Oh, every day," he conceded, with a wry smile. "It will take some getting used to, sometimes I feel as if I am fighting in the dark, without the heightened senses of the wolf within me. But every day it is a little easier, and I do not regret it." He rose from his seat, standing before her a man of honour, meeting her eyes with a look of fierce sincerity she had never seen in him before. "You have my sword, Harbinger. I would follow you to Oblivion and back, if that be your will."

She smiled then, a genuine smile, full of relief at his words. With Vilkas' acceptance, the others would be sure to follow. She might just stand a chance of making this work.

He grinned at her favourable response. "Now, if there is nothing further, I would ask your leave to return to my chambers. It grows late, and there are new recruits to train in the morning."

"Granted," she smiled again, following him to the door. As he went to leave she placed a gentle hand upon his wrist, looking up at him in earnest. "I want to get this right, for Kodlak. Will you help me, Vilkas...?"

Vilkas started a little at her touch. Since he had known her they had generally kept a respectful distance from each other; except when they were sparring, but that was different. She had never touched him like this before, a shy little gesture of friendship. He liked it.

"Of course," he replied without hesitation, enjoying yet another of her warm smiles before she closed the door behind him and he left for the solace of his quarters.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **Thanks to all those who are following the story so far, and to all those who have commented :)

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><p>In the weeks that followed her return the Harbinger took to her new duties with an almost natural competence, assigning tasks appropriately and offering counsel to those who asked for it. Despite her modest successes thus far, Myrna still seemed unsure of herself in her role as leader of the Companions; frequently asking the other members of the Circle how they thought she was doing. As long as she ensured they kept enough gold in the coffers to keep them in meat and mead, none of them would have any complaints.<p>

Myrna had wasted no time in acquainting herself with the new recruits that had been taken on in her absence. They were young, the eldest having barely seen his twenty-first winter, a cocksure Nord lad named Jovan with thick red hair and more muscle than brains. There was also another Nord - a woman, and a Bosmer male who could handle a bow with deadly skill, but with a sword in hand his swings were so wide and clumsy he was as like to slice an ally as his foe. Green as they undoubtedly were, they all seemed eager and willing to learn, even the red-haired sop, though somehow he seemed to think he was a cut above the others. This attitude had so far won him few friends among the Companions, least of all Vilkas, who would have had the boy kicked out of Jorrvaskr altogether if it had not been for his brother. Kind-hearted Farkas believed that everyone deserved a chance. He had said the same of Myrna when she first came to their halls and _Gods_, Vilkas hated it when Farkas was right.

Jovan liked to boast that his father had been a famous adventurer, though when asked he either could not or would not give the man's name. Vilkas suggested to him that this was probably on account of the fact that his mother was a whore from Riften, and as such any number of men could be his true sire. In a rare moment of wit Torvar joked that Jovan's father could in fact be Ragnar the Red, the famous braggart from the bards' songs. It was Myrna herself that had finally taught the boy a lesson in humility.

After heavily over-indulging in mead one night at the Bannered Mare, Jovan announced to those present that he could best any man in combat. He had not counted on the Harbinger taking up his drunken challenge, and definitely did not expect the small Breton woman to trounce him so magnificently. Vilkas often caught himself smirking when he recalled the scene to his mind.

The lad had started easy on her, making slow deliberate thrusts with his wooden practice sword while Myrna dodged and sidestepped on light feet, but made no move to strike him back. Perhaps he had assumed her to be weaker than he, mistaking her small stature and her sex for feebleness. Whatever he thought, he soon realised his mistake as she danced around him, easily avoiding his every attempt to land a blow while Jovan grew breathless with the very effort of trying. Poised in battle-stance, Myrna stood before him, grinning a daedra-may-care grin and tossing her wooden short sword from hand to hand playfully. She was toying with him, deliberately goading the overzealous recruit as he sweated and flagged beneath his heavy armour. The Companions who had gathered in the training yard to witness the event smiled and nudged one another, all knowing how this lesson would end.

Jovan made one more heavy lunge with the weapon, throwing his whole body into the attack. Myrna's grin did not falter and she dodged swiftly around him in a heartbeat, thwacking him on the backs of his knees with the wooden blade hard enough that he fell in a clumsy heap in the sawdust. Using the flat of the sword she dealt him a hefty slap on the rump, adding insult to injury as she held the point to the young recruit's exposed neck. The laughter of his shield-brothers and sisters must have stung as much as the slap, but the boy had at least had the grace to accept his defeat and yielded to his superior, even going so far as to shake the hand the Harbinger offered to help him back to his feet.

By rights that should have been the end of it. After his humiliating defeat the boy had ceased his pointless bragging at least, but since then he had found himself another pursuit that was just as irksome – especially to Vilkas. Jovan followed the Harbinger around Jorrvaskr as if her were her shadow, finding any reason he could to talk to her and take up her valuable time. Myrna treated him with more kindness than he was probably due, perhaps she believed Jovan's sudden awe of her to be nothing more than that of an eager student for their mentor. He did, after all, have a lot to learn. Vilkas, who had been a hormone-driven youth more years ago than he cared to admit, guessed the boy's intentions to be far less honourable.

He could not blame the kid for trying though. She might not be a Nord, but it could not be denied that the Harbinger was a beauty in her own right, with her chestnut hair and those deep brown eyes that could only be described as striking.

She had changed much since she had left them. Even at mealtimes, when she used to be so full of laughter and strange Breton humour the Harbinger was more often than not away in her own thoughts. She would respond to a question if one was posed to her, but her answers were short, and her eyes had a far away look to them. The girl _had_ just fought in a war, it was perfectly reasonable she would not be completely herself for a while. Even so, Vilkas could not help but worry. Myrna had long since recovered from the cold she had arrived with, yet she still suffered from terrible headaches on an almost daily basis. She had admitted this to Tilma in confidence, so of course, all the Companions knew.

Today must have been a good day, however, as Myrna had left her room and was outside in the yard, attempting to give the new Nord woman, Eva, a lesson in archery. This would have normally been Aela's task, but she was away clearing sabre cats from a farmer's land at the time. Shortly after the lesson began it became clear that Aela's being otherwise engaged was probably a good thing; it was doubtful the fiery huntress would have the tolerance to teach Eva much of anything. The blonde girl was terribly clumsy, so much so that she kept dropping her arrows before she could even bring them to the string. If Myrna was at all frustrated with her she did not let it show. Instead she offered kind words of encouragement and advice whilst sipping a weak health potion. When the bow finally slipped from Eva's fingers and clattered to the ground Vilkas decided the Harbinger must have the patience of a saint.

He and Farkas had decided to spend the afternoon sparring with wooden training swords, made to the same shape and weight as their own Skyforge steel greatswords. They would have been just as well to duel with their real swords, for each man knew his twin's combat tactics down to the very last detail. Farkas was the stronger of the two, but Vilkas was quicker, and so they were evenly matched, training together more out of habit than as a test of their skills - with the eventual loser buying the first round of drinks in the Bannered Mare afterwards.

As he circled his brother Vilkas spotted Jovan approaching out of the corner of his eye, striding across the yard carrying a wrapped leather package in his arms. He scowled to see the boy was heading straight for the archery dummies, to bother Myrna as usual – could he not leave the poor woman in peace for one minute?

Before him Farkas feinted to the left, then swung his sword to the right, a move Vilkas easily blocked with his sword and parried, to be knocked backwards by his twin's own forceful block. He quickly recovered, and caught the grin on his brother's face, both of them knew the steps to this dance all too well. They circled again, allowing Vilkas to watch the scene unfolding across the yard.

Arrogant as he was, Jovan had clearly thought nothing of interrupting Myrna in her lesson to present her with the bundle, which he held out to her with a slimy smile that Vilkas did not like in the slightest. It was at times like this that he missed the beastblood, with it he might have been able to hear what the red-headed whelp was saying to her as she accepted the package and unwrapped it with a bemused expression upon her face. No doubt it was something particularly trite.

The package contained Myrna's own ebony axe and elven shortsword, sharpened to a wicked razor's edge that could cut through armour as easily as butter. Myrna held them up to the sunlight, astounded at the beautiful shine of the blades that had lain dull and useless in the main hall since her return. She never had the coin to get them sharpened herself and besides, there were no smiths in Whiterun that dealt in ebony or elven weapons. Great smith though he was, Eorlund Graymane would only work with Skyforge Steel and could not be convinced to even sharpen blades of any more exotic metal.

Lazily parrying another of Farkas' rehearsed strikes, Vilkas watched as Myrna beamed at the young recruit, demanding to know how he had organised such a gift. Feigning sheepishness, Jovan ran a hand through his curly red hair. "I called in favour with an Elven smith I know," he smiled, "Are you pleased, Harbinger?"

Still beaming, Myrna tested the weight of the weapons in her hands. They were as light and familiar as she remembered – like old friends compared to her borrowed blades from the armoury. "Pleased? This is... they are just wonderful, Jovan. I am truly touched that you would do this for me."

She reached up, giving him a hearty squeeze on the shoulder, eliciting a dopey grin from the boy in response. Vilkas felt his guts contort with silent rage. Just who did this whelp think he was? Did he think he could rise through the ranks by licking the Harbinger's boots?

So immersed was he in his anger that he completely missed the swing Farkas had taken with his sword until the wood cracked him hard across the skull. For a long moment he staggered, then fell backwards, the back of his head hitting the ground with such force that his teeth clashed together noisily. He must have blacked out for a few seconds, because the next thing he knew Farkas was kneeling over him with an amused smile on his sweat-streaked face.

"The rounds are on you tonight, brother."

Vilkas tried to sit up, succeeding on the second attempt. His head felt like it had been stuffed with tundra cotton, a lump already forming where the sword had struck him upon his temple. Desperately trying to regain focus, he blinked hard and tried to ignore the ringing in his ears. He shook his head and attempted to speak, managing only a low groan of pain.

Farkas' smile faded to a look of clear concern. "Are you all right?"

"All right?" Despite the pain, he could not help but laugh at the question. "Of course I'm not all right, Farkas – I think you about caved my skull in! By Talos... I knew you were strong, but that..."

"I thought you were going to get out of the way," Farkas shrugged, helping his brother to his feet with a strong hand. "You usually do. What happened?"

"I lost my concentration."

"Yeah, I sort of gathered. You yell at me when I do that," Farkas replied, allowing Vilkas to lean on him as they made their way to the benches. "What were you looking at anyway?" He looked across the yard and saw the Harbinger at the training dummies with two of the new recruits. "Oh."

Vilkas was about to ask the meaning of _"Oh"_ when a horrible thought crossed his mind. "Did she see...?"

Farkas grinned at the panic in Vilkas' voice. "No, she didn't see. She was too busy talking to that red-haired lad. You were barely out for a second anyway."

Vilkas slumped down heavily on the bench and poured himself a cup of water from the table. He doused his sweaty brow with the first cup, then refilled it and took a long draught. "I was watching that red-haired whelp, that Jovan..."

"Didn't think he was your type."

He shot his brother a warning look. "Surely you have noticed the way he's always hanging around the Harbinger, distracting her - now he's even taking her weapons to the smithy for her!"

Farkas snorted, filling a cup for himself. "Is that so terrible? You used to ask Myrna to do that for you when she was a recruit."

Vilkas thought at first to argue, until he remembered it was true. "That was different. This is... well, the boy could not be more obvious if he bent down and licked the dust from her boots!"

"Her boots are not the only thing I think Jovan would like to li- ow!"

A sharp kick under the table silenced the salacious comment but did nothing to fade the insolent smile on Farkas' face. Vilkas stared after the Harbinger, who was now aiding Jovan with his archery technique, her newly sharpened weapons strapped at her hips. As she raised his right elbow to the proper position it was plain to see the boy was relishing in her attention, deliberately letting his arm drop down so that she must correct it again. Vilkas held back a growl. Was Myrna so foolish she could not see what he was about?

He gripped his mug so tightly his knuckles turned white, dark eyebrows knitting in a deep scowl. "He's nothing but a milk-drinker. He wouldn't know the first thing to do with her."

"And I guess you would?" came his brother's reply.

Vilkas turned his scowl to Farkas, finding an expression of barely concealed amusement upon his twin's face. Damned right he would know. In truth the licentious thought had crossed his mind on quite a few occasions, accompanied by many pleasurable images. Each time he checked himself. Myrna was the Harbinger and as such deserved more respect, both from himself and that jumped-up little red-haired get.

Even so, he often found himself thinking back to the way she had looked after she defeated the wolf-spirit that had stained Kodlak's soul. She was dirty, breathless and sweating, yet fiercely beautiful – as though she would slay a legion of the savage beasts if that was what it would take. Vilkas had loved her a little that day. Myrna may not have been afflicted with the beastblood herself but there was a wildness within her, one that he recognised as the thrill of the battle danced in her eyes. As soon as the feelings had risen Vilkas cast them aside, knowing no good could ever come of thinking more on it. He was privileged enough to count Myrna as a shield-sister, and more than that, a friend - for it was him she came to most when she herself required counsel. That was the best he could hope for.

Farkas watched his twin quietly, noting the grim look that was creeping across his features. Vilkas was brooding again - he knew better than to ask what about. Even if Vilkas deigned to grace him with an answer, Farkas was next to useless at offering helpful advice. His talents lay in combat, not conversation, as anyone in Jorrvaskr could attest. When he could stand the silence no longer, he cuffed his brother on the arm playfully. "Let's go to the tavern," he said. "With that lump on your head there'll be no question as to which of us is the more comely. I fancy my chances with Ysolda tonight."

Vilkas laughed at that. "I would have thought you'd have got the message the first ten times she turned you down."

"It was five at the most. Besides, ladies like it when you're persistent, don't they?"

On that he could not comment. Farkas had been chasing Ysolda for some weeks now, casting admiring glances at the pretty market trader from across the bar and showering her in compliments in that awkward manner of his. Vilkas had no doubt that she would give in eventually. Farkas had a natural charm about him that most of the women he set his sights upon seemed to find irresistible. It was another thing that set them apart; not that Vilkas begrudged his brother's success with the fairer sex. His own romantic endeavours usually consisted of a quick fumble with a willing tavern wench and no further. That was just the way he liked it. Women were complicated.

Vilkas allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. His head was still banging like a kettle drum but he was more than able to walk unaided. Farkas threw a fraternal arm about his shoulders regardless, half-leading, half-dragging him in the direction of the Bannered Mare tavern. He took one last glance at the archery lesson as they rounded the corner and frowned.

An evening drinking Farkas under the table was just the thing he needed.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **Wow this chapter was way harder to write than I thought it would be! Hope you enjoy, and please if you see any glaring errors my poor tired brain may have missed let me know :)

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><p>Myrna was feeling particularly wretched this evening. The migraine had started early, a niggling ache at the back of her skull, gradually worsening throughout the day to become a fire behind her eyes, rendering her incapable of pretty much anything except lying down in a darkened room. The other Circle members were all absent at dinner, apparently finding their own entertainments at the Bannered Mare. In truth Myrna didn't really care where they were, she was simply relieved to be able to retire to bed early without feeling the need to explain herself.<p>

It was getting harder to hide her illness from the Companions. These days she seemed to spend more time in her room than out of it, quaffing health potions like water in a vain attempt to manage the pain. Myrna was sure Vilkas suspected something was amiss - especially since he had witnessed her hands shaking at dinner a few days ago. When her trembling fingers lost their grip on her spoon, Vilkas handed her a piece of bread to mop her remaining soup up with instead, returning the errant cutlery to the table without a word. He did not have to say anything, for the dark look upon his face said it all.

The only time she felt well was in her dreams, and she had been doing a fair amount of dreaming lately. It probably had something to do with the potions; Myrna wondered if Arcadia thought she had some sort of problem, based on the amount of custom she had been giving her these past few weeks. At least the woman had the good sense not to say anything to Myrna's face on the subject, commenting instead on the Harbinger's paleness when she visited her little shop. Even so, Myrna had sent Lydia on an errand to find the ingredients so that she might make her own potions in future. This had the added benefit of ensuring the housecarl was not around to fuss over her, which suited Myrna just fine. She got enough fussing from Tilma as it was.

She found the housekeeper had already placed a bedwarmer under the coverlet. Too exhausted to undress properly, she tossed her boots into a corner and snuggled under the furs in her leather armour. Resting her aching head amongst the pillows she closed her eyes, waiting for sleep to relieve her from the throbbing pain in her skull. She did not have to wait long.

That night she dreamed a memory; of standing in the war room of the Palace of Kings in Windhelm. Before her the map of Skyrim was spread across the oak table in the centre of the room, coloured flags marking the positions of the Stormcloak and Imperial strongholds across the land. It seemed like a lifetime since she had last been here, yet she could recall every detail, even the coldness of empty room as she awaited her Jarl's pleasure. She had been drinking in Candleheath Hall with her Stormcloak comrades when a messenger brought her the summons. _Come alone _was all it said, written in Ulfric's own hand. Just two simple words, but they had set her heart fluttering all the same as she made her way across the snowy city to meet her lover.

Idly Myrna toyed with the red flag that had once marked Fort Sungard, noting with amusement that someone had crushed it almost in half since their recent victory, replacing it with an identical flag of Stormcloak blue. She heard the door open and close behind her, but did not turn around to see who it was. She didn't need to.

A strong pair of arms encircled her waist from behind, followed by the press of a large male body against hers. She smiled and closed her eyes as he kissed the nape of her neck, his hot breath and the tickle of his beard combining to give her gooseflesh and shivers down her spine.

"You kept me waiting," she chided half-heartedly.

"My apologies," Ulfric replied, purring into her ear in that deliciously deep voice of his. "I was forced to deal with some trivial peasant matter outside the city. As Jorleif is fond of reminding me, I was Jarl of Windhelm before I began leading the Rebellion." He turned his face to her neck, breathing her in deeply between kisses. "Trust me, this – you, were all I could think of."

His hands found the buckles of her leather armour, deftly undoing the metal clasps until the chestpiece fell with a dull thud upon the flagstones. He teased at the sensitive spot behind her earlobe with his lips, forcing a whispered gasp from her as she submitted herself to his tender kisses, the beginnings of arousal coursing through her veins already.

It had been too long since they had last been together like this, much too long. Leaning into his embrace, she could feel his hardness pressed against her back and knew that he felt the same.

"My Jarl, I ..." she began, silenced by his hand slipping beneath her corset to fondle her breast, bringing the nipple to instant firmness between his thumb and forefinger. Instantly she had forgotten what she was going to say, feeling her cheeks redden at the pleasure of his sensual caresses.

"Call me Ulfric," he reminded, his voice a low whisper in her ear.

"Ulfric," she replied, testing the feel of the name on her tongue. The Jarl's lips returned to her neck, kissing and biting until Myrna spoke his name again in a throaty moan that echoed off the cold stone walls.

With that he turned her around and captured her lips in a hungry kiss, tearing so urgently at the cords of her corset he was like to break them. He was in his shirtsleeves, already unbuttoned to the waist. Underneath his fine clothes and armour, Ulfric Stormcloak had a body that any male Nord would be proud of. Myrna smoothed her hands over the taught muscles of his chest, dragging her fingernails lightly across his skin until he groaned into her mouth, pressing himself into her all the harder.

With a growl of desire he pushed her back against the table, lifting her hips so that she was sat upon its edge. Ulfric broke away from the kiss, his intense blue eyes meeting hers with a dark look of unbridled lust. Somewhere far off in the back her mind a voice told her that this was a dream, that it only a memory, but at that time she didn't care. The feeling of him was so good, so real,she decided if this was a dream she never wanted to wake up.

The corset had finally fallen open. Ulfric cupped her breasts in his large hands, stroking her soft flesh and bending down to take her rosy nipple in his mouth, swirling his tongue over it until it was stiff and hard and her breaths came in ragged gasps. Pleasurable warmth began to spread from her stomach down to her most sensitive parts and Myrna knew she needed him, and soon. Ulfric did not resist her as she unlaced his breeches, allowing her to take him out and caress his hardness in her hands. Gently she began, increasing in speed and pressure until Ulfric was groaning aloud with each stroke. He was pulling at her leggings, yanking them down her legs with her smallclothes so that she was soon naked, sat upon the table's edge.

Ulfric's eyes roamed over her body, a desirous grin upon his lips that she returned readily, realising that he meant to take her here, upon the very same table that they spent so many hours poring over discussing stratagem. His cock stood hard and ready. Myrna felt her entire body quiver with anticipation as he spread her thighs with his palms, drawing himself agonisingly close to the wetness of her core. As he bent down to kiss her she wrapped her arms about his shoulders, urging him even closer, to take her here and now. Ulfric chuckled through the kiss at her eagerness and she gave a frustrated little moan. How he loved to tease her, but she knew it only served to make the moment of their joining all the sweeter.

She could feel his heartbeat through his chest as he kissed her deeply, the tip of his manhood lightly pressing against her warm wet folds tortuously. Myrna wrapped her legs around him, shuddering and gasping as he moved to kiss her neck once more and nipped at her earlobe, his breath in her ear making her wetter still.

When he whispered in her ear however, it was not his voice that she heard.

"_Alok, mal mey."_

Myrna woke from her dreaming with a start, the strange words and guttural voice filling her mind like an icy body tingled with unsatisfied arousal, but any pleasant sensation the torrid fantasy had instilled in her had been chased away and replaced with fear and agony as pain exploded behind her eyes. She bit her lip to stop herself crying out, thrashing and tangling herself deeper in the already knotted bedclothes.

Her head felt as though it was being gripped by icy claws, squeezing and tearing at her, like some beast trying to rip her apart from the inside. She tried to scream, managing only a tiny whimper before the tremors began. This time they were worse than they had ever been before, starting in her fingers and seizing her muscles in turn, becoming wild convulsions that she was powerless to stop. Her body was no longer her own to command.

Her head was forced back so hard it collided with the headboard, sending stars flying before her eyes. Again and again her head hit the wood, rattling the entire bedframe with the force of the blows, those words echoing in her mind all the while - _Alok mal mey. _Myrna prayed to the Divines that it would be over soon, that she would lose consciousness or worse, anything to escape the agony. Perhaps the Companions might hear her, though their own sleeping quarters were far from hers, in the very foundations of Jorrvaskr. Even if they did, what could they do? And what would they think to see their Harbinger in such a pitiful state? Tilma would probably send for a priest. The thought made her want to laugh out loud. No priest could help her now.

As quickly as it began, the shaking ceased. Lying on her side, Myrna curled herself into a ball and sobbed into the pillows like an infant. She was bleeding from somewhere, her nose or her lip, and her muscles burned from the force of their unnatural exertions. She had never felt so weak and helpless in all her life. Whatever this affliction was, she knew that she could not fight it any more.

"_Alok, mal mey," _the low voice said again. It seemed to come from nowhere and yet everywhere, so quiet she could barely hear it yet also so loud it was deafening. The dark whispers that filled her head chilled her to her very soul. Myrna knew that voice. She had heard it before – near the tower just outside Whiterun where they had felled the dragon.

_Mirmulnir. _The name came to her in an instant, though she had never once heard it spoken. That was the name of the dragon she had slain alongside the Whiterun guards, the dragon whose soul she had somehow absorbed with her own. Somewhere far away she could hear the beast's spectral laughter, hollow and humourless and terrible. It made her skin crawl.

The room was dark, the door was locked, but she knew was not alone.

"_I see I am forced to use your inferior language to make myself understood, little fool," _said the dragon. His voice was deep and ancient, dripping with a black malevolence that made her shiver to hear it. _"Did you really think you could fight me forever? Did you really think you could ignore what you are?"_

_I am dreaming, _she thought, trying to convince herself it were true. _This is all a dream, it is not real. It cannot be real..._

"_Mal mey." _His derisive laughter flooded her senses again. _"You know that this is no dream, foolish mortal. I have seen your dreams. I know your darkest thoughts and deepest desires. I know of your love for this man who would call himself King of Skyrim. I have seen you fight meaningless battles in his name, watched as you went about your miserable little life. It is all for naught, Dovahkiin. The true battle has yet to begin."_

_Dovahkiin. _That wretched word. Myrna buried her face further into the pillows, hoping that covering her ears would somehow block out the cruel voice from her hearing. _This is madness, _she thought. _I've gone mad. I am not the Dragonborn. I can't be. It's impossible._

"_Your cowardice tries my patience," _the dragon growled. _"You gained my knowledge of the Voice when you took my life Dovahkiin, stole my power from me - yet you do not even wield it for yourself. That is the greatest insult."_

"I never wanted it," Myrna whispered aloud into the silence of the room. "I never wanted this..."

"_What you want is of no consequence. You cannot hide from the dragonsblood in your veins, any more than you can hide from the World Eater. Alduin will find you, little fool, as he found you before at the place you called Helgen. You will not escape him a second time."_

In an instant her memory snapped to that day, so sudden and vivid, as if she was back there in Helgen on that cold morning. A foot on her back forced her down to place her head upon the block, where her eyes met those of headsman's previous victim. From the basket below the Stormcloak's head stared up at her, his expression fixed forever in a frown of contempt for their Imperial captors. His blood was on her cheek, sticky and warm, the metallic odour of it filled her nostrils and made her want to vomit. Still she remained calm, turning her gaze to the executioner, deciding to face her death with the same quiet dignity of the brave man before her. It would all be over soon.

Then the dragon came; a screaming nightmare on jet black wings, sending Imperials and prisoners alike scattering in fear as it swooped and wheeled overhead. Fiery breath cooked men alive in their armour, and the little village had been engulfed in the flames. In the chaos that ensued Myrna had somehow managed to escape with her life. If the dragon at Helgen had been Alduin, and if he had truly come to kill her, he need only have waited a minute more and the headsman would have completed the task for him.

Then in a heartbeat Helgen was gone, and a vision of Mirmulnir himself appeared in her mind. Huge with shining green scales like mail, the dragon was as fearsome to look upon as she recalled, yet it seemed as if he was smiling at her, baring rows of razor sharp teeth in a hideous expression of amusement. He knew her thoughts. He was laughing at her.

"_This vile world is at its end, Dovahkiin. Alduin will feast upon its flesh, and cast the insects that live upon it into the void. Only the Dragonborn may defeat him. The question is, little fool, will you fight?"_

Myrna's head was spinning, an internal maelstrom, the burning pain behind her eyes blooming once more as she tried to force Mirmulnir's foul image from her brain. The more she tried, the more it hurt, and the beast's cruel smile widened with each effort.

"_You waste your energy," he sneered. "You cannot fight your destiny, mortal. Your Gods have chosen you for this task, though I myself wonder why they placed their faith in a craven to save the world they love so much." _He laughed again, tendrils of steam spilling from his great nostrils in mirth._ "Whether you fight him or no, the World-Eater comes. You are given a choice; to look into the face of death with sword in hand, or to lay down and accept your fate, much as you did that day at Helgen. Whatever you decide, I will be watching. Drem Yol Lok, Dovahkiin. Think on what I have said, and choose well. Time grows short."_

With that, the dragon was gone, and the pain gone with it. Her knees curled almost to her chest, Myrna gave a cry of relief. She wiped a hand across her face to dry the fresh tears on her cheeks and let out a long, shuddering breath. Suddenly she felt different. Better.

She sat up, pushing the bedclothes from her body. Though the fire had long since burned out she felt uncomfortably hot. As she reached for the pitcher of water at her bedside she realised her hands were steady; her heart had ceased its racing and had returned to its natural calm rhythm within her breast. For the first time in what had seemed like an age, she was herself again. It was a strange feeling.

She had always known the dragon was there, despite her best efforts to pretend it was not. Mirmulnir's soul had been like poison - a parasite within her, constantly attempting to supplant her thoughts and feelings with his own. When she was awake and conscious she could resist, but when she was sleeping she was far more vulnerable to his whispers. His memories became her dreams, of soaring through clouds over ancient lands on leathery wings, of speaking strange words in a forgotten tongue, of turning whole forests to ash with her voice. In those dreams she _was_ the dragon. He was a part of her, a fragment of her splintered soul, and in her dreams they became one.

Myrna took a long sip of the water, letting it bathe her tongue with its coolness and wash away the bloody taste from her mouth. The tears were gone now, leaving behind a sense of clarity as she considered the dragon's words.

_I am the Dragonborn,_ she thought, and for the first time she allowed herself to truly believe it. It still did not make sense, but she knew somehow it was true. When she had slain Mirmulnir she had absorbed all his knowledge and power as he had said, she could sense it in the instant his soul entered her body. _Craven_ he called her, and he was right - she had been too cowardly to accept what she was, wanting so much to be normal. Deep down she had always known she was anything but.

Myrna had always felt at home on the battlefield. She told herself she joined the Stormcloaks to fight the Imperial army, seeking revenge against the Empire that had seen her father hanged and orphaned her before her tenth nameday. In reality all she had wanted to do was fight, to feel the blood pumping in her ears as she cut down her enemy, to dance with death as they slashed at her with their blades. In her eagerness for combat she had forgotten what she was truly fighting for, and her relationship with Ulfric Stormcloak only served to complicate matters. Ulfric had known what she was, using her status as Dragonborn to gather supporters and soldiers to fight for his cause. He had encouraged her to embrace the gift the Divines had granted her and as much as she loved him, Myrna had not even allowed _him_ to convince her.

The civil war had given her something to hide behind, helped her to ignore the whispers of the dragon within her soul. Too long she had been idle at Jorrvaskr, allowing the whispers to become almost deafening, manifesting themselves in the violent migraines that had almost seen her confined to her bed. Now that she had stopped fighting, stopped denying the truth that had frightened her for so long, she could finally begin to piece herself back together.

Myrna rose from her bed and rifled through her dresser until she found her amulet of Talos – the most famous of Dragonborns. She fastened it around her neck, clasping the chain between her fingers in the vain hope that the Divine himself might see fit to offer her some guidance in the tasks ahead. If the world was truly coming to an end, she would fight to save it, or die trying. She would go to the Greybeards.

Somewhere deep within her, Mirmulnir laughed.


	7. Chapter 7

Vilkas had never been a morning person. Even less so when he was hungover. A slamming door had already woken him once, followed by muffled conversation – the sounds of his fellow Companions beginning their day. He ignored them all in favour of languishing in the solace of his darkened quarters and returning to sleep, hoping the pounding in his head would be relieved somewhat when he woke again. No such luck.

He could not remember when he had come home the night before, only that it had been before Farkas, if his brother had even come home at all. As it turned out Ysolda had been more than welcoming of Farkas' clumsy advances that particular evening, helped along in part perhaps by the cups of wine she so obligingly accepted from him. Vilkas did not think it prudent to mention that it was he that was paying for said wine, and so he had not objected when his brother parted from his company to escort the pretty trader to one of the inn's more private rooms. The sound of the pair slobbering all over one another was frankly putting him off his mead, and when Ysolde finally suggested Farkas should take her upstairs Vilkas had been quite relieved.

Faced with the prospect of drinking alone, or with a fearsome looking mercenary woman whom he recalled had once attempted to join the Companions, Vilkas opted to head back to Jorrvaskr. The chill drizzle of the rain on his face as he made his way back to the Wind District was rather sobering, and it suddenly struck him that he could use a woman himself. He could not even remember the last time – two, maybe three months ago? It had definitely been before the Harbinger had returned to them, in fact he had still been a werewolf then. With the beastblood coursing through his veins his primal urges had been far harder to ignore, and he had found it easier to satisfy them. Something about the wolf in him made propositioning women far easier back then, and he also found he had fewer qualms about who he took to his bed.

There were whores in Whiterun, if you knew where to look. Vilkas did not care to. He was not a wolf any more, and any pleasure the prospect of a quick fumble could bring was rather dampened by the possibility of contracting some pox or another. He did not relish the idea of tumbling any of the ladies of Whiterun, truth be told. Whether he would be paying for the privilege or not, it was only a small town, and the thought of running into a woman after he had bedded her made him uneasy.

The voices in the hall were growing louder now, Vilkas could hear Torvar's drawling tones and a pair of female voices, one most definitely Aela's. His plans to turn over and attempt to indulge in another hour's rest were becoming more and more unlikely with each muffled exclamation. As much as he respected his shield-siblings, he wondered why they must choose to have their spats right outside his bedroom door. And did Torvar know what he was taking on, picking a fight with the Huntress? He decided it would be prudent to step in and help restore some order, and crucially, some peace and quiet. Sleep would not come to him now, not after this much disturbance, but he had a number of books he was keen to catch up on and no tasks assigned to him for the day. A perfect combination.

His joints were stiff from sleeping in his armour and his hair a little more wild than usual, however maintaining an authoritative expression was second nature to him in spite of his slight dishevelment. Vilkas painted on his signature scowl and stepped out into the hall to confront his comrades and hopefully end their noisome dispute.

"What in Shor's name is going on out here? Some people are trying to sleep!" he growled.

Pausing their quarrel, the three Companions turned to face him. He was right, it had been Aela and Torvar that had woken him. The third voice he had heard was Ria's; the only one with the good grace to look abashed as he glared at them all.

Aela returned his glare with an icy one of her own. "Some of us have been up since dawn, Vilkas. It's now almost noon. Good night at the Mare, was it?"

No attempt was made to mask the disapproval in her tone. Though she enjoyed the occasional flagon of mead when feasting, Aela could not understand why people would drink to excess on a regular basis. She prided herself on being alert ready for anything, content that her only real indulgence in the world was succombing to the call of the werewolf blood that flowed within her very veins. With it she felt closer to Skjor, her mate, and nothing could compare to the feeling of hunting and killing in the skin of a wolf. It was something Vilkas missed more than he would ever admit, even to himself.

Vilkas ignored Aela's remark, as he ignored the slight pounding in his skull and the dryness at the back of his throat. Yes, he was most definitely hungover, but he wasn't going to give his shield-sister the satisfaction of knowing that. A drink of water and a crust of bread and he would be fine in any case.

"Just tell me what's going on, Aela, so that we can all get back to whatever it is we were doing before you started making this unholy racket."

"Fine," she said, huffily, whirling back upon Torvar, "Explain to this one why he _will _be taking the new-bloods hunting bears in the Pale if he ever wants to be anything more than a whelp around this place."

Vilkas' lip curled as he regarded the blond Nord. "What is it, Torvar? Can you not even take down a bear by yourself these days?"

"It's not that!" Torvar protested, pointing at the words upon the missive he held in his hand. "It says here I've got to take the pups on some sort of jolly hunting adventure. Well I'm not doing it. Have you _seen _the way that Ava handles a bow, Vilkas? She's lovely to look at sure, great set of teats on her... but the bear could be as big as a dragon and she'd still find a way to miss it. The Bosmer, Melras, nice enough boy but thick as pig shit and Jovan... ugh. If I have to spend more than half a day with that red-haired son-of-a-bitch I just might have to kill him myself."

Vilkas took the parchment from Torvar's hand, struggling to contain a smirk. Sure enough, it was written in Myrna's own hand, and specified that Torvar was to take the young recruits on a practice hunt to hone their skills. The missive even stipulated explicitly that he was not to try and shirk the responsibility or palm it off on anyone else. Not if he wanted to continue enjoying free access to the Companions' ample mead supply. A little low perhaps to threaten a man with such a punishment, but if it was up to Torvar he would spend his whole career as a Companion drinking in the yard. A good idea of the Harbinger's to force him to have to do _something_ for once, though Vilkas did wonder why Myrna hadn't run the new assignment by him first as she usually did. It did not matter as such, she was not obligated to include him in all her decisions - it just struck him as a little odd. Perhaps she was finally gaining confidence in her own abilities as a leader, becoming the Harbinger Kodlak had known she could be.

"If that is the task the Harbinger has set for you then you should get to it, Torvar." he said, thrusting the missive back at the whelp. "You're always complaining you never get any good jobs – well, here you are. Prove yourself in this and perhaps you might make it into the Circle before you're in your dotage."

Seeing he wasn't going to get anywhere with his superiors, Torvar set his jaw and folded his arms like a child who could not get his own way. "Well that's just great, thanks Vilkas. But if any of those new-bloods get themselves killed on my watch it will not be my fault."

"See that they don't," Vilkas warned, and with that Torvar stomped off up the corridor, muttering oaths under his breath. This left only Ria, staring down at the floor like a child about to be reprimanded by her parents.

"And you girl, what's your problem?"

Ria shifted a little, still staring at her toes. "My... uh, my sword, it's a little dull and..."

"So take it to Eorlund, why are you bothering us? Do you want one of us to hold your hand to the Skyforge, is that it?"

The young recruit mumbled an apology and turned on her heel, fleeing down the corridor and away from Vilkas' dangerous glare. He was even more terrifying when he had just woken up.

Vilkas ran a hand through his mussed hair and leaned against his doorframe, turning to Aela who folded her arms across her chest.

"I would have handled that myself, you know," she said flatly.

"But could you have done it quietly?" Vilkas replied, arching a dark eyebrow with a hint of a smile. It was probably a bad idea to cheek Aela – years ago he had learned the hard way not to get on the Huntress' bad side. Luckily her features softened; the closest Aela ever got to smiling herself.

"I think the Imperial girl was only going to ask if we wanted anything taken to the Skyforge ourselves," she said reproachfully. "You probably didn't need to be quite so harsh."

Vilkas tried unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn. "Probably, but there's no room for bootlickers among the Companions. Sooner all the whelps learn that the better." _Especially Jovan, _he thought darkly. Pitting the boy against a bear would test his mettle once and for all. He was almost sorry he hadn't been assigned the task in Torvar's stead.

He returned to his bedchamber, wondering if the pain he was feeling in his head was altogether down to his hangover or from the walloping Farkas had dealt him yesterday in the training yard. Lying down upon his bed he reached for his book and the mead bottle on his bedside table, which turned out to be disappointingly empty.

"So this is all you are planning to do today," said Aela flatly from the doorway, voice thick with disapproval.

"Aye," he returned, just as flatly.

"It smells like a brewery in here," Aela said, wrinkling her nose. Vilkas glanced at her with irritation – why could she not let him alone?

"Aela, is there something you need?"

The Huntress folded her arms across her chest again and scowled. "Nothing _I _need, no. I just thought you should be aware that we are in charge around here for the time being, myself, you and Farkas. So perhaps you might endeavour to set a better example to the whelps than lurking in your bed all day when there's training to be done."

Vilkas sat up and looked her in the eye. "We're in charge? Then where is Myrna?"

"The Harbinger left in the wee hours. She said she would return, but she could not say when."

Anger fogged Vilkas' mind. So she had left them again - barely a few weeks after swearing that she would do no such thing. His headache quite forgotten, he leapt to his feet and stormed past Aela and out towards the Mead Hall.

"She said she was not to be followed!" Aela called after him, but it was of no consequence. Vilkas was not listening. He was going to get his sword.

The hall was quiet, a few recruits enjoying a meagre luncheon of cold meat and bread. Farkas was among them, looking as cheerful as anyone would look after they had spent the night rutting.

"Brother!" he grinned after seeing Vilkas, "Come and sit down. Have some food," then, noticing the look on Vilkas' face, "What is the matter?"

"Nothing at all," he returned sarcastically, "just that our Harbinger has all but abandoned us yet again."

Farkas shrugged his impressive shoulders. "Oh that. Yeah, I saw her leave this morning. She seemed all right. Said she'd be back soon enough. Don't worry."

Vilkas was fuming – he could not believe how little his Shield-siblings seemed to care that Myrna had upped and left them with nary an explanation.

"Worry?!" he spat, yanking his greatsword from the weapons rack, "I'm not worried. I'm going to find her and drag her back here! What was Kodlak thinking, making a slip of a girl leader of our Order? She prances off alone on flights of fancy when the mood takes her, probably getting herself killed... Well I won't have it. We are the _Companions_! We work together, we have no secrets, and it's about time she respected us."

"Calm yourself Vilkas," said Aela, who had appeared behind him. "Myrna said she will return, and I believe her. She does not need to answer to us."

"I think we deserve an explanation at the very least!" he growled, fastening the sword to his back. "And I intend to get one." He took a step towards the door, then turned back. "Farkas, are you coming?"

Farkas shifted awkwardly in his seat as he met his twin brother's eye. "Well, she did say she was not to be followed, Vilkas..."

Vilkas' features contorted with rage. He bared his teeth at his brother and marched for the door. "Shor take you all!" he shouted as he left, slamming the door so hard that it echoed throughout the hall.

The recruits at the table, who had been watching the exchange, nervously returned to their meal. Farkas went to rise, feeling terribly guilty for not taking his brother's side. Aela placed her hand on his shoulder and shook her head.

"Let him go."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: I struggled like hell with this chapter, I wrote it ages ago and just couldn't get it to sit right so pretty much rewrote the whole thing tonight. Thank you so much for reading and reviewing, a bit of combat in this chapter which was super hard to write but I hope I pulled it off! **

Tendrils of sunlight threaded lazily through the branches of the pine tree, the last of the day's warmth ebbing away with the slowly setting sun in the west. Soon it would be nightfall, and the frost would seize Skyrim like a wolf seizes the throat of his prey – quickly and without mercy. It was Myrna's favourite time of the day, a time when the land was bathed in a beautiful orange glow that she was sure could rival even the balmy sunsets of Hammerfell or Elsewyr, though she had never been to either province personally.

She had not travelled as far from Whiterun as she might have in the time since she had passed through the city gates. The coachman had been there by the stables as usual despite the fact that dawn had not long broken, but she had decided to forego the convenience of his services and make her way to High Hrothgar on foot. She had hoped perhaps that the long walk might aid her acceptance of the foreign dragon soul within her body. Mirmulnir had been quiet since he had spoken to her the previous night, but she knew he was there, watching through her eyes in silent amusement at the foolish mortal with her dovah soul.

Despite not knowing what in Talos' name was going to happen when she finally reached the Greybeards, Myrna felt better. Denying the power within her had been slowly destroying her, trying so hard to be "normal" was causing the dreadful migraines that had almost confined her to her bed. Now she had a fire – a new energy within her, and by the Nine she intended to use it.

Barely a few hours walk from the city Myrna had come across a troupe of Stormcloak footsoldiers on patrol, thankfully none of whom were familiar to her. Myrna wondered if she really did look all that different when she was out of her Stormcloak armour, seeing as none of the little group recognised her either. It was probably for the best that they did not.

"Well met, traveller," their Captain hailed as they approached. She was a grizzled white-haired Nord woman, heavily battlescarred and carrying a steel sword and shield. "I see from your weapons you are an adventurer, but be warned: these roads are not safe after nightfall. There's a group of bandits in the hills - nasty sorts, call themselves the Vipers. A Khajiit caravan was attacked hereabouts, not two nights ago. They left none alive. I don't much care for the cat-folk to tell true, but those poor souls… there was barely anything left of them when they'd finished."

Her words were clear, but Myrna did not miss the shudder as she spoke the last. "Thank you for the warning," she replied gratefully. "I'm sure I can handle myself.

The Captain gave her an appraising look, glancing her up and down. "Aye, I've no doubt that you can, girl. Still, we've upped our patrols in this area. Ulfric Stormcloak didn't claim back our lands just for us to lose them again to lawless brigands and murderers."

The mention of the name was like a shard of ice in Myrna's stomach. Outwardly she remained cool, listening to the woman rattle off a list of the group's increasingly disturbing crimes and nodding at intervals. Inside she was furious with herself. For all the time and distance she had put between herself and her former lover, all she needed to hear was his name and all the old scars were torn open again. They did not hurt so much as before, though. She would not let them. The choice to leave had been hers, and it was the right one to make.

The white-haired Nord continued, having not noticed Myrna had stopped paying attention a few minutes previously. "We've been searching for their hideout for a long time now, we keep casting the net out, we're sure to catch them in the end. Until then, should you come across them, my advice is to fight and flee – no bounty is worth losing your head over. Or any other part of you, for that matter."

At that Myrna's ears pricked up. "There's a bounty? How much?"

The Captain looked hesitant for a moment, then smiled slightly through the scars on the left side of her thin lips. She gestures to one of her comrades, a gangly lad of about twenty. "Give her the poster, Unblooded."

Fumbling in his pack the boy wavered nervously under his superior's impatient glare. The paper he was searching for would not come to his grasp easily, he was forced to hand several ration packs and small items to the other lad in the patrol, another boy of around the same age. Myrna couldn't help but smile, remembering when 'Unblooded' had been her title when she served in the army, eager to impress her senior officers and work her way up through the ranks. After a time the lad found what he was searching for, handing it triumphantly to the surly Captain, his smile dying promptly at the sight of her withering glare.

The Nord woman passed the poster to Myrna, who studied it eagerly in turn. The reward for killing the gang stood at a princely five-thousand Septims, provided all of them were disposed of together. Unfortunately missive was unable to provide more than an estimate of how many criminals there were to wipe out, only that it was somewhere between five and twenty which was not very helpful at all. Myrna's attention was drawn to a strange design in the centre of the page, a crude likeness of a pair of snakes entwined around each other, their fangs dripping with what she supposed must be venom. It looked like a something a child might have doodled out of boredom in the back of a schoolbook.

"What is this?" she asked, pointing to the page. The Nord Captain smiled grimly, as if she had been expecting the question.

"Pretty ain't it? That's their mark. I think it's safe to say artistic talent is not their strong suit. Not as much as murdering and thieving anyway." She laughed, but there was no humour in it, her expression deadly serious. "They all have that ugly thing branded upon them somewhere, tattoos on their hands - or so said a merchant that managed to get away on his horse before they could catch him, lucky sod. No idea if it's true, but it's something to watch out for. I would think on about trying to bag them, lassie. Bounty or no, I'd wager it will take more than one fighter to take these thugs down."

"Even if that fighter happened to be the Harbinger of the Companions?" Myrna queried with a wry grin.

The lads stared agape at her then, nudging each other behind their Captain's back. She for her part merely blinked once in surprise, then reached out to shake Myrna's hand firmly.

"I had heard the new Harbinger was a Breton woman," she smiled. "Good for you girl, there's not enough female leaders in Skyrim – sometimes the men in this country need to be shown we can crack heads as well as any of them. However you might be wise to have your Shield-siblings at your back if you truly wish to root out the Vipers. No disrespect to your skills of course, my lady."

"Of course," Myrna smiled, "Thank you, Captain. When I return to Jorrvaskr I'll make the arrangements, unless the Vipers are apprehended beforehand."

"Oh I doubt that they will," the woman sniffed, "Between you and me, and these two clods I'm patrolling with, the guard has been chasing their tails on this one for months. The victims are usually too scared or too dead to be of any use, and we've not had a sniff of a hideout. They're laughing at us. If your Companions can do any better you'd be due far more than five-thousand Septims if you ask me."

With that she shook Myrna's hand again, bid her a good evening and was on her way, the two youths trailing behind her. Myrna cast her eyes over the poster once more, then folded it neatly and stowed it in a pocket. Right now she had bigger things to think about than going looking for trouble, but if trouble should happen to find her then that would be entirely different.

* * *

><p>Of course, trouble showed up not half an hour after the soldiers were gone from sight. Myrna was still on the road, but making good progress towards her destination when a pair of ugly looking brutes appeared from the lengthening shadows of the forest that surrounded them, demanding coin in exchange for her life. The first was a Bosmer, smaller and slighter than herself, his teeth filed to jagged points with a pair of equally jagged knives clutched tightly in his hands. The other, a blond Nord man, stood nearly two heads taller than his companion. A mighty warhammer was clutched in his massive paws, as he loomed over her menacingly he turned it over and over as if it weighed nothing more than a blacksmith's tool. They seemed the usual type, hunting in pairs to take people off their guard; obviously thinking a woman travelling alone would be an easy target despite the weapons she carried in plain sight. Even so, Myrna was mindful of the Captain's warnings. If these were members of the Vipers gang they were likely more interested in shedding her blood than taking her gold.<p>

The Bosmer was twitchy, he had an evil-look about him that made Myrna wonder whether there was some truth in the rumours about the cannibalistic nature of the Valenwood elf-folk. Certainly there was something in the way he eyed her that made her uneasy, his running his tongue over his pointed teeth only serving to exacerbate the cold, prickly feeling creeping down her spine. His whole body was trembling, the look on his nasty face excited and grinning, breath puffing from his mouth in short sharp bursts that became plumes of white in the frigid air. Yes, he liked killing, this one.

His companion by contrast let his actions speak for him, his expression one of near boredom, ever turning his colossal hammer in his hands threateningly. She did not doubt that one well-aimed swing would be enough to turn her brains to mush; the big man could probably kill her without breaking a sweat if he had a mind, if she let him close enough.

Let them try, she thought, unsheathing her weapons and standing her ground. The battle for Solitude felt like a lifetime ago, and she was eager for a fight, even if it was against these two cretins. She had no intention of running from them. Caution be damned - she had been incapacitated for far too long; and the opportunity to test her sword arm was not to be squandered.

"You've got some stones, for a female," laughed the Bosmer in a high, nasally tone. He was uglier still when he laughed, but hung back, taking stock of her with those beady little eyes of his. "Got some pretty blades too, I'll wager they'll fetch a good price. You best be handing them over, or my friend here might just have to break that lovely face of yours."

The Nord said nothing, but grinned at her nastily while tossing the hammer between his hands like a toy. Myrna believed she had the measure of him. As massive as he undoubtedly was, all that bulk also stood to be his weakness. The biggest of us fall the hardest, she thought, testing the weight of her own axe and sword in her hands. The both of them had quite evidently made the crucial mistake of underestimating her, and it was one they would sorely pay for.

She returned their grins with a cool smile of her own. "It will be a cold day in Oblivion when the likes of you can best me," she said, the sweetness of her town not masking the malice in her tone. She secured her footing and raised her weapons high, preparing for the inevitable attack.

Myrna could not have predicted the battle more precisely. At once, the large Nord lunged at her, swinging his hammer for her head in what might have easily been a killing blow if she had not seen it coming a mile off. Spinning to the side she dodged him easily, the sheer force of his own swing carrying the man forward with a stagger. Golden afternoon sunlight flashed on the Harbinger's blades as she swept round to slice at the back of the large man's knees, sending him sprawling into the dusty road with a hefty kick to the back. In an instant she was poised to defend again, this time from the Bosmer, who was flying at her in a flurry of his own wicked blades, hoping to bury one of them in her neck or her stomach while she was still reeling from his companion's assault. Before he could strike she had danced smoothly behind him, her weapons about his neck, severing his head from his body in a jerking, scissor-like movement.

The elf's head rolled a few feet, like a cabbage that had fallen from a cart, then stopped still, his eyes rolling madly for a second before they became still and fixed upon the sky. Myrna wiped the blood spatters from her face on the leather of her bracer and rolled her shoulders, feeling a little cheated. That had been much too easy, and over far too soon for her liking. The thrill of battle was like a drug, one she had long forgotten how much she craved. Even just putting these two lowlifes down, the thrill of her small victory was exhilarating. Perhaps she was greedy, but she wanted more.

She turned her attention to the Nord who was still lying in the road, unable to stand on his now ruined legs. Myrna had not simply hacked at him as he passed her, she knew the exact place to slice him, right behind the knee where his flesh was exposed between his boots and the furs her wore as armour. The big man drew back in fear when she approached, his courage long since taken leave of him. His eyes were wide, darting with pure and unadulterated fear.

"Please..." he whimpered, as she brought her sword tip to his throat, "Please, don't..."

"And how many times have you heard that yourself, I wonder?" Myrna scoffed, pressing the point into his skin so that a slow trickle of crimson seeped down to the man's collarbone. "How many innocents have you and your nasty little friend killed upon these roads for your own sport?

"Answer me, craven!" she demanded, pressing the sword harder still, making the brute wriggle like a gigantic worm on a hook. This man was not worthy to be called a Nord – Myrna had seen pigs at the butcher's knife die with more dignity.

"Some," the blond man admitted, not daring to look her in the eye, knowing there would be no mercy there. She pulled her blade across his skin, widening her mark and making him hiss with pain. "Lots! Lots – I know not how many."

It was all Myrna could do not to end him there and then. Bullies and cowards such as he did not deserve to live, nor did they deserve a quick and decent death. They were lower than skeevers - robbing honest travellers of their hard earned coin and goods, murdering for nothing more than the very pleasure of it. She turned away from him in disgust, a sick feeling twisting her guts. It wasn't until the bandit raised his hand to his bleeding throat that Myrna caught sight of the mark on the back of his knuckles. A tattoo, old and poorly executed, but there sure enough – the image of two black snakes. Myrna glanced over to the body of the Bosmer and sure enough, the mark was visible on the back of his right hand too, still clutching the knife in his death-grip. The mark of the Vipers gang.

Myrna grinned to herself at her apparent good fortune. Perhaps the fight wasn't over quite yet after all.

"There are more of you," she said to the wounded man, bringing her blades to his throat once more, "Tell me where."

He swallowed hard, "What does it matter if I tell you or not? You are going to kill me anyway."

Myrna smirked a little. "Perhaps you are not quite as stupid as you look. You are indeed correct, this is the day you die, but I can make you a deal. Tell me where the Vipers are hiding and I shall make sure your passing is quick, keep your silence I shall simply cut you open and leave you alive and bleeding for the wolves to find. Make your choice."

It was hardly a choice, and the blond man apparently did not care enough for his associates enough to suffer being eaten alive for them. Myrna rewarded him with instantaneous death; seizing his chin and scalp and jerking his head sharply at an angle so that his neck snapped with a gut-wrenching crack. A few days previously she would never have considered she had the strength to perform such a deed. Myrna supposed it was because she was Dovahkiin, and she could not help but chuckle under her breath at the absurdity of it all.

Straying from her intended course, Myrna followed the trail the bandits had left to their hideout, turning from the road and into the forest. It was an easy enough trail to find, she might have even discovered it even without instructions – all broken twigs and worn down earth. The two she had killed had obviously been using this trail for a long time, or were just too stupid to think to cover their tracks. Probably both.

As she treaded the forest path Myrna felt a small pang of guilt that she was once again delaying her calling to The Throat of the World, yet her longing for more combat was one that she was desperate to satisfy. After all, if she was supposed to be a hero it was about time she started to act like one. Enough of her time had been wasted, sitting all but idle behind the closed doors of Jorrvaskr mead hall, and before that fighting in Ulfric Stormcloak's battles. The Greybeards could wait a little while longer. What was half a day when she needed this – to fight and feel her warrior's heart pumping hot blood through her veins?

Taking care of a few more scumbag bandits was just the sugar on the sweetroll.

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><p>The blond Nord had warned her that the Vipers were many, and so she had seen when she scouted out their cave hideout in the north of the pine forest. Stealth was something she was most skilled at, and she was able to sneak up to within a few yards of the group without them noticing her presence as she crouched in the shadows of the descending evening. There were at least ten sitting around the campfire in the clearing between the trees, perhaps more inside the cave in the rocks behind them, thieves, looters and murderers all. Defeating them alone would be a challenge – a real test of her skills. And exactly what she was looking for.<p>

Myrna decided it would be prudent to wait for nightfall to attack, then she could rest from the day's travelling and have the darkness on her side. The forest around her was so dense it was an easy feat to slip away from the cave again without drawing attention, shinning up a tree in which to watch, and wait.

The scent of pine sap and wet earth made a relaxing combination. Myrna found herself dozing, listening to the birdsong all about her as she leaned again the trunk of the mighty tree, both legs dangling either side of a thick branch that was only about halfway to the very top. Shrouded by boughs and pine needles, she could see the bandit camp perfectly despite being some distance away. The fools were so arrogant that they thought nothing of keeping a fire going day and night, totally unaware they had created the perfect beacon for one who was watching their comings and goings from afar. Not that there was a lot to see. As the night began to draw in the ale bottles began to open, and even from where she sat she could hear their songs carried on the wind, tuneless and bawdy, a few of which she knew herself.

Myrna sat so still that not even the squirrels who called the tree home seemed to notice her presence, happily going about their business while she reclined, eyes half-closed, waiting for the sun to take its leave over the horizon and the darkness to set in. The wind swirling and moaning through the forest was chill, but she barely felt it, lost in the anticipation of the skirmish ahead. She would need her bow, and so she unfastened it from her pack, oiling the string and counting her arrows. Glass-tipped, her favourite kind, her quiver barely contained two dozen, but it would probably suffice – and if not her blades were always thirsty for blood.

As the birds began to quieten and take to their nests, Myrna heard the soft shuffle of footsteps nearby, and instinctively sat still and silent until the source of the sounds came into view. A large brown bear, just a few weeks out of hibernation, passed beneath the branch she was sitting in and sniffed at the air. Catching the Harbinger's scent, the bear made eye contact with its source for long moments, in which Myrna thought she would pass out from holding her breath for such a considerable amount of time. Bears were always more afraid of you than you were of them, or so the saying went. It was hard thing to imagine when coming face to face with one of the giant creatures yourself. After a time, however, and a long moment of unsettling and unbroken eye contact, the bear seemed to decide the woman in the tree was no threat, and beckoned to her cubs to follow her though the trees into the peace and solitude of the mountains beyond.

Myrna settled again, but not for long. As the last ebbs of sunlight weaved themselves through the pine trees she could hear another set of footsteps thudding though the forest nearby. She closed her eyes and listened. Two feet, heavy boots, their owner seemingly not caring to even attempt to muffle their sound as he walked. Another bandit returning to the camp, perhaps? Silently, Myrna nocked an arrow to her bow and waited.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Apologies again for the terrible delays in updates, so much goes on in my life I seldom have time for writing, and when I do I find my muse can be frustratingly elusive! Nevertheless thank you to all those who are still reading, even my husband who is sneakily following this story. Yes, you. I can see you! Anyway I hope you enjoy, a bit of action coming up in the next few chapters – the violent kind not the naughty kind, but I promise there will be plenty of that soon enough :)**

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><p>Capable warrior or no, travelling alone by night in Skyrim was rarely a sensible plan of action. Vilkas made his way through the forest with his greatsword drawn, wary of the possibility of being ambushed in the gloom of the forest shadows, be it by a wolf, a bandit or something worse. Times like this were when he most missed the beastblood. With it he would probably be able to find his way to his quarry through mere scent alone. Right now he wasn't even sure he was even going in the same direction he had started out in, the stars shrouded as they were by the canopy of pine branches above and the worn trail he had been following having disappeared some time ago. An irritating voice at the back of his mind insisted he was lost, yet still he continued, reasoning that he could not stop out in the wilds even if he wanted to. Also, he was sure he had heard voices a while back carried on the wind, faint though they had been.<p>

Pressing on, he was halted by an odd noise to his immediate left. Standing still, Vilkas held his breath and listened. It had sounded like something had hit the ground, but all he could see around his feet were pine cones and needles - hardly cause for concern being that he was in the middle of a pine forest. He waited a little and, satisfied it was probably some small animal and nothing more sinister, continued on until he heard the same sound again. Two little thumps, one after another, this time sounding like they came from either side of him. Vilkas' heart beat a little faster and he raised his sword, the unsettling feeling that he was being watched trickling down his spine like ice water. His eyes darted around the small clearing, searching for a shape or a shadow that did not belong. If there was something there, he was ready. Long moments passed, and when still nothing happened he allowed himself to relax and lower his sword again.

Perhaps it was nothing after all.

Vilkas' shoulders were stiff from being poised for so long. He stretched and rolled each one in turn, and was about to set off again in the direction he believed to be north until something small and hard struck him square in the face.

Vilkas cursed aloud as the pinecone fell to the ground between his boots, raising his sword once again and turning around, hoping to spy the source of the projectile. This was most definitely not the work of an animal - someone was having their sport with him. He would see that they lived to regret it.

"Show yourself," he commanded, growling the words into the inky blackness that surrounded him. Nothing but silence followed, save for the gentle hiss of the wind through pine branches; he could hear his own heart thumping in his chest, strong and fast, adrenaline surging and ready for him to strike down whatever foe was coming his way. Then he caught a different sound, another thud, heavier - boots on the ground behind him. He didn't have time to look. In less than a second he whirled, swinging his longsword in an arc, cleaving nothing but a deep groove in the bark of one of the great sentinels that surrounded him as the blade struck it and stuck fast. Vilkas was about to go for the dagger in his belt when he heard the laughter, soft at first, rapidly descending into ridiculous giggles that were irritatingly familiar.

He loosened the grip on the hilt of the dagger, searching the shadows for the source of the voice. "Myrna?"

As if on cue the moon broke from the clouds and Vilkas saw her, on her back in the dirt, having dodged his violent strike by inches. Her hand was clamped over her mouth in an attempt to stem the laughter that would doubtless give their position away to any enemies within earshot, but in the instant she met his agitated gaze she was set off again, snorting in a most unladylike way and doubling up in what soon became soundless mirth. Vilkas of course did not see what was quite so amusing.

"Hell's teeth woman, control yourself!" he snarled, offering a hand to her and pulling her to her feet. The Harbinger could only lean on him as she tried to compose herself; Vilkas could see the leaves and twigs stuck in her hair from the forest floor. Not only did she sound like a fool, she looked the part as well.

"Sorry, sorry," she breathed finally, sounding anything but, "But you looked so damn funny, jumping at shadows and pinecones. And then your sword… is it stuck?"

Vilkas glowered at her beneath dark eyebrows, his silver eyes glittering dangerously in the moon's eerie light. "I told you, I am not the same without the beastblood," he said testily, giving the sword still in the tree trunk a hard yank. It refused to budge. _Shit. _"What were you doing creeping about in the dark anyway? I could have killed you!"

"No, I don't think you could," Myrna answered, waggling her eyebrows saucily at him, fighting the urge to laugh again as he huffed at her. _Ah Vilkas, _she thought, _still_ _so easy to provoke. _"I might ask you the same question as it happens. What were you doing following me? I specifically remember leaving orders that I was not to be followed. And exactly how did you find me, for that matter?"

With both hands upon the hilt of his greatsword, Vilkas manipulated the blade in a sawing motion. Whether he was making any progress towards removing it, or was simply embedding it further in the wood he could not tell. For his pride's sake he hoped it was the former. "To find you I simply followed the bodies," he sniffed, sweat beading upon his brow. "A couple of no-mark bandit types on the road to the south, one relieved of his head. I presumed they were your handiwork. Before that I simply asked fellow travellers if they had come across a Breton woman travelling alone. There's only one person I know would be foolhardy enough to do so in these lands. As for why I followed you, well why should I not? You may be the Harbinger, but you do not hold any authority over me unless I wish it. We are Companions - we fight together or die alone, and by Ysmir I will not let you martyr yourself for some idiotic cause no matter what it may be."

Myrna smiled at him then, grateful that his back was turned to her and he could not see. So Vilkas actually cared if she lived or died - that was some sort of progress in their somewhat strained relationship.

"So," he said, penetrating the silence that had fallen, "I ask you again – why are you out here?"

Myrna wanted to tell him the truth. Of course she did. The whole ridiculous story, about the dragons and the Shouting and the dreams and the ancient words hidden, buried deep within her soul. Or _souls_, if she counted that of Mirmulnir. Vilkas would laugh. Of course he would, and she would too, but when the laughing was done he would most likely drag her to the nearest lunatic asylum and leave her there for the rest of her days. Perhaps she belonged there. It was probably safer than this… quest, or whatever it was exactly she thought she was doing. There was no way to say 'I'm on my way to the High Hrothgar to learn how I can save us all from an ancient dragon who wants to bring about the end of the world' without sounding like she had truly cracked, although she had a strong suspicion _that_ was something had happened quite some time ago. Vilkas stared at her now, scowling, waiting for a response to his question, and she shuddered a little under his cold scrutiny.

"I'm hunting bandits," she answered, forcing herself to meet his eye despite knowing he would never accept the half-truth in a month of Sundas. Vilkas cocked an eyebrow at her, the smirk that turned up the left corner of his mouth indicating his scepticism.

"Bandits. And that's the best you can come up with? Do not take me for my brother, Harbinger. We are not all so easily fooled."

Myrna felt a prickle of shame that he had immediately seen through her lie, yet at the same time she was irked at his disbelief. No matter how much longer he had served in their order, she was _Harbinger_, and by the Nine she would not let him undermine her.

"Yes, bandits," she spat back, drawing herself up to her full height, still a full head shorter than he. "There's a mob of them not far from here, bunch of murderous arseholes, and I mean to take them out. Help me or don't, Vilkas, I really couldn't care less if you think it's beneath you, but I _need_ this. It's been too long since I've been in a fight."

Vilkas leaned upon his sword, grinning at her, knowing that his insolence would only serve to aggravate her further. He was loving every second of it. This fierce little thing was the Myrna he remembered before she had gone to war. The tough little Breton warrior that had put him on his arse in the training yard sawdust on the very first day he had met her. Gods, did she even know how beautiful she was - the essence of what a Nord should be in everything but blood? Vilkas suspected not, and fought the urge to reach out and touch her warpainted cheek with his fingers as she stood up to face him, checking his grin with her own agitated scowl.

Rummaging in her pocket she produced the reward poster the guard captain had given her, thrusting it at him with more force than was necessary. Vilkas' eyebrows raised when he saw the size of the bounty. That amount of gold would keep Jorrvaskr in meat and mead for the best part of a year – surely there was a reason the reward was so high.

"Very well," he said after a time. "Bandits indeed. Whereabouts and how many?"

Myrna opted to ignore the scorn in his voice, but her expression did not soften. "A cave northeast from here. At least ten by my count, maybe more."

"And you intended to take them down alone? Forgive me for second-guessing you, Harbinger, but you have been all but bedridden for days…"

"And now I am better," she snapped at his incredulous tone. "You have never seen me with a bow, Vilkas. You have no idea what I can do."

Myrna unslung her bow as if somehow to prove her point. Even in the semi-dark Vilkas could see it was a weapon of quality. He had witnessed her skill at archery before at Jorrvaskr, though what one could achieve against straw dummies in the training yard in broad daylight was vastly different from taking down live targets in the dead of night. It could all go so horribly wrong, but one look at her face showed him her confidence, the belief in her own ability. He would be doing her a disservice if he did not at least let her try.

"Fine," he said stiffly, "but I will be watching. The instant I think things are going sour I intend to step in, of that make no mistake."

Just as quickly as her scowl had appeared it was gone, replaced with a tentative smile. "Thank you Vilkas. For understanding. And for taking the time to find me, I suppose, though it really was unnecessary."

Vilkas merely grunted in response, returning to his sword and the task in hand. There was something about that smile, even when it was hidden underneath all that stark red warpaint it made his stomach lurch uncomfortably. It was a _dangerous _smile, and one he was sorely tempted to return in spite of himself. Squaring his shoulders, Vilkas took a deep breath and gave his sword one mighty heave, nearly falling on his behind when the wood finally relinquished its hold upon the blade. He chose to ignore the ineffectually-stifled snigger that came from behind him, instead checking the sword for any nicks or damage. He should have known better than to strike out blindly like that; Skyforge steel was to be treated with more respect, and Eorlund would see that he was roundly lectured on the subject the next time he dared visit the Smith. It was still sharp enough to cause considerable damage of course, and definitely enough to deal with any of the miscreants that might be lurking in the forest ahead.

Myrna moved to the tree in question, tracing her fingers upon the deep groove the greatsword had left in its trunk. "That is one hell of a weapon you have there," she said approvingly, genuinely impressed.

"Aye, so they all tell me," he returned with a smirk, holding back a laugh as she scoffed at his true meaning. For a moment he watched her, bathed in the moonlight, staring out into the murk before them, wondering what exactly she could see beyond those eerie shadows, if she could even see anything at all. Then he caught it. The faint whisper of smoke upon the breeze – a campfire. He took a few slow steps towards her, closing his eyes and focusing on the sounds around them. _By the Nine_, this was so much harder without the wolf within him, without light to see his senses were dulled to the point of near-uselessness, but he continued, ignoring the howling winds and the creaking of the branches, the soft breathing of his Harbinger and his own heart beating a steady tempo within his breast… and then, a different sound. A crackle of rough male laughter, not more than two leagues from where they both stood. Myrna turned to him with a grin. She had heard it too.

"So then," he said in a low voice, leaning to her ear, "what exactly is your plan?"

Myrna's smile widened, taking an arrow from her quiver and testing it before notching it to the bowstring. "Stay low, stay quiet and take them all down before they even know I'm there."

_This is insanity_, he thought darkly. One woman pitted against ten men at least, yet he believed she could do it, and more importantly, it was plain she believed she could do it too. Vilkas slung his sword over his shoulder, ready to follow her wherever she was about to lead him.

"Go on then," he said in a low voice close to her ear. "Show me what you can do."


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Hey look at me - two updates in the space of a week! Thank you to all those reading and following, and especially to those who have left reviews... I literally squee each time I get a notification :D Might be a bigger gap before I post the next chapter, but in the meantime this one is a wee bit longer than usual. Hope you enjoy!**

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><p>The first bandit went down without even a sound, silenced forever by an arrow though his throat as he went for a piss in one of the shadowy bushes surrounding the cave hideout. Despite his subtle passing, Myrna crept silently through the undergrowth on her haunches, watching for her next mark to make the mistake of separating himself from the group and to give her a clear shot. She did not have to wait long. The Vipers had been here for a long time it seemed, and apparently they had become complacent, with only two that she could see acting as sentries on either side of the camp.<p>

Closest to her was a Nord, tall and broad with an impressive bushy beard of bright orange and a battleaxe slung over his shoulders. Myrna watched behind a tree as he made his lazy patrol, a razor sharp glass arrow drawn taught to the string of her bow, waiting for the instant he stepped out of eyesight of his comrades before letting it fly. It found its mark with a thud, embedding itself deep into the man's chest, through his leather armour and into his heart, granting another silent and instantaneous death. Myrna released the breath she had been holding, staying low and moving through the shadows into range of the other sentry on the other side of the camp.

The Vipers at the fireside carried on drinking, completely oblivious to the fates of their fellows as they hooted and hollered at each other like apes. These would be the hardest to take out without alerting the rest of the camp. Myrna counted six of them. One roasted a fowl on the fire over a spit, a couple of the others had swords thrust through their belts - in the glare of the flames it has hard to see what manner of weapons the others carried. Noticing the myriad of empty bottles scattered around their feet Myrna had to hope that their apparent intoxication would aid her in dispatching them with a minimum of fuss.

Certainly it helped her with the second sentry. Myrna almost felt a stab of guilt when she loosed her arrow – the Orsimer woman was blind drunk, listing dangerously on a tree stump and mumbling a drinking song to herself, so slurred that the words were barely distinguishable. An orcish sword was stuck into the earth by its point before her, even if she had been sober she would have had no chance of reaching it in time. Another clean kill, an arrow through the heart, and the noise the woman made as her breath left her body sounded just like a hiccup.

Three down, and no others on their own that she could see. It was time to try her luck with the drunks at the fireside.

With the sentries dealt with, she was able to creep her way carefully behind the group for what she hoped would be a clearer shot. She cast a cursory glance at the mouth of the cave, checking for any activity there. Long creepers and blankets of greenish moss were draped over most of the rock face, so that the Vipers' hideout might have been overlooked altogether were it not for the small fire burning in the entrance. There was no sign of any more persons within. Perhaps there were only nine bandits after all. Myrna felt a little uneasy; when she had been scouting she was sure she had counted ten. If there were any more lurking inside they would doubtless be drawn out by the panic she was about to unleash upon the brigands in her sight. She would have to work fast, no doubt about that.

Myrna dropped to one knee, steadying herself, and drew two arrows from her quiver. Spreading her fingers, she notched both arrows to the bow, drawing them back on the string as far as her body would allow. She had only attempted this a handful of times, with partial success, and never on a live target. With a whispered prayer to all Nine Divines she adjusted her aim, keeping the arrows as straight as she could as she held her breath to keep her hands steady.

One heartbeat.

Two.

The arrows flew swift from her bow to their intended targets, embedding themselves in the flesh two men with their backs to her and ending both of their lives at once.

Then began pandemonium. The panicked screaming of a woman who had been seated on the lap of one of the now dead men, having leapt to her feet amid cries of _"Ambush!" _from her cohorts_, _all frantically searching the darkness for a sign of the mystery assailant. Notching another arrow, Myrna turned upon the hysterical woman, ending her screeching with a whimper as she crumpled to the ground before her mate. The rest of the company had at least the sense to spread out, weapons drawn, bumbling blindly in the pitch black looking for the intruder. She took two down easily, firing one arrow after another, then shouldered her bow to go after the third, a dark-skinned man who had stumbled straight past her, missing her completely in his haste to get out of the firing line and towards the safety of the trees.

He might have made it that far if he had not tripped over the body of the Orsimer female, falling face first into the stump she had been sat on. "Oh fuck… they got Ysira," he moaned, scrabbling for purchase on the loose earth so that he might get to his feet and take flight. Before he could rise Myrna was upon him, axe in hand, striking him between the shoulder blades and severing his spinal cord with a crunch. He died instantly, face down in the dirt.

Myrna was breathing hard, her body practically humming with pure adrenaline, her blood singing in her veins. She had wanted to prove herself, not just because Vilkas was watching, and now nine murdering lowlifes had been sent to Shor's gates by her hand alone. Myrna hoped that Vilkas had been paying attention, and that he was sincerely regretting doubting her skills earlier. Nords in combat were fire and fury personified; they cared little for the art of stealthy assassination when their foe could be met head on in a blaze of bloodshed and pure might. Knowing Vilkas as she did, she supposed he would easily find some criticism to make about the way she had put down the Vipers. Even he could not argue with the results though, and when she heard heavy footsteps behind her Myrna turned, grinning, expecting to see his customary scowl. She almost dropped her weapons when she realised her mistake.

Before her stood the largest Orsimer she had ever seen, eight feet tall if he was even an inch. Dark tattoos covered nearly every inch of his bare chest interspersed with violent slashes and scars too many to count, light in contrast to the olive-green of his skin. His arms were the size of small tree trunks, both adorned with the image of the entwined snakes stretching from shoulder to wrist in stark black ink. Two evil-looking axes were clasped tight in his colossal fists; each would have been a two-handed weapon for any other man, yet he held them as if they weighed nothing. His dark eyes reflected the firelight as he regarded her, silent and unmoving, his yellow tusks bared at the woman that had infiltrated and slaughtered the rest of his camp.

So this was the reason the bounty had been so generous.

Though shaken at first, Myrna steeled herself and returned his glare with venom. Sheer size could not intimidate her any more than numbers had. With a calming breath she raised her elven sword, her ebony axe held tight at her left hip in a defensive stance, baring her own teeth at the giant before her.

"Come and get me then, if you can," she challenged, her voice level but fierce in the undertone.

The bandit chief made a strange noise, a deep scratching within his throat like metal scraping against metal. It was only when he took a step towards her that Myrna saw the heavy scarring that stretched from one side of his deep green neck to the other, evidence of a years-old old wound that by rights should have resulted in death. At some point in time someone had attempted to open this monster's throat, and had ultimately failed. The odd sound was laughter, a ghoulish and horrible crackling resonating from his ruined vocals. The brute's mouth was not even open and still the noise persisted, growing louder and clearer with each step that he took. Myrna shuddered, keeping her footing, though instinct told her to turn and run. This was no ordinary Orsimer - this was a _beserker_, a warrior that would stop at nothing to cut his enemy down. Myrna felt like a prize idiot in that moment. Of course she had not miscounted, and of course bandit number ten would prove to be the biggest challenge of them all.

The orc's strides became quicker, and soon he was almost right upon her – swinging the axe in his right arm viciously so that it might have taken her head clean off if she had not ducked out of the way in time. The left axe came after in a wide arc, again missing as Myrna leapt backwards and countered, hacking at his exposed torso with quick slashes with both of her blades and diving past him into the firelight. Not a sound came from the giant except for a brief hiss of exhalation, he was soon rounding on her, his weapons cutting the air in a blur. His strike was expertly dodged by the little Breton who whirled again, hair flying and cloak twisting in her wake, flitting neatly away from danger and already planning her next move.

The Orc chief was becoming angry now. Anger was good. Anger meant mistakes. Without giving her a chance to pull up her blades he charged at her, hissing his rage between his teeth like some hideous overgrown chaurus. Myrna feinted right and span to the left, making to move past him until he caught the edge of her cloak with the axe in his right hand, winding it around the blade and jerking her backwards so that she fell to the earth with a thump. The fall knocked the air from her lungs and she gasped, only just able to react in time as the Orsimer's left axe descended, like to split her head in two had it not been for the crossing of her own axe and sword before her face. Sheer desperation gave strength to her arms, kept her fighting him off even though he was many times stronger than she. His evil face was growing ever closer, that horrid rattling laugh becoming louder and louder until she was certain it would be the last thing she would ever hear. Relentlessly he pressed her, pushing down like a great leaden weight, his axe mere inches from her face. Deep down she knew she had the power to stop him, her _V__oice _alonecould stop him, but she was too afraid and he was too close, his rancid breath puffing into her face, the stench of rotten meat and stale beer filling her nostrils.

Then came a slick thud, and his clacking roar as he drew back with an arrow protruding from his left shoulder. Myrna swore she had never been so happy to see Vilkas than she had in that moment. He shouldered his longbow and strode into the camp as if he owned it, taking his sword from his back and looking for all the world as if he were being greatly inconvenienced by the proceedings. The Orc did not waste time, and in a split second he was charging at his new challenger in a frenzied rage. Myrna rose to her feet in time to watch Vilkas not only dodge out of the way, extremely deftly for a man wearing such heavy armour, but to see him swing back and counter with that ridiculously large blade of his, severing the bandit's left arm just below the shoulder in what became a fountain of thick black blood and gore.

A wheezing shriek of pain came from the giant orc's throat as his arm fell to the ground, twitching and useless, followed promptly by the axe it was holding. Seeing an opening, Vilkas attempted to rush him with his sword only for the brute to tear his right axe from Myrna's cloak and block him at the last second. Vilkas grunted, momentarily losing is footing as the bandit chief reeled back and lashed out again with his one remaining arm. The blow caught Vilkas across the chest with such force that he was sent hurtling backwards, landing on his back several feet from where he had been standing.

That awful clacking filled the air again and the bandit chief raised his axe, closing the distance between himself and the gasping warrior in one step. If he was hideous before then he was terrifying now; his missing limb not detracting at all from his intimidating physique, shoulder steadily spurting an oozing trail behind him. Winded though he was, Vilkas tried to roll away from him to safety until an iron-booted foot stamped down upon his chest, pinning him to the floor. The blow to his chest had hurt but the weight of the giant upon his breast was nothing short of agony, Orc blood dripping upon his face and cloying his senses with its coppery smell. It was falling into his eyes, forcing him to close them, hoping that Myrna had some sort of plan to save him before he lost his head lying helpless at the mercy of this monster.

Myrna did not have a plan. Not in the least. Her senses had left her completely, and yet somehow she was running, racing towards the bandit scum and to her shield-brother's aid. Her blades rained upon the Orsimer, hacking, slashing, stabbing – no move calculated, each one desperate, punctuated with cries of fear and rage as she tried to draw him off. To her relief the Orc removed his foot from Vilkas, allowing the warrior to breathe once more as the bandit staggered after her. With one arm missing the Orc's balance was badly affected, and his attacks with the blade became wide and clumsy. He abandoned the axe, opting instead to try to punch Myrna with his giant fist or grab at her as she ran circles around him. All the while he hissed with frustration, his anger burning in his eyes and frothing at the mouth. He struck out at her wildly, but she was too quick, managing to drive her sword into the flesh of his belly and eliciting another ragged hiss in reaction to the pain. His skin was as tough as mammoth hide, and when she tried to pull her sword free from his body it stuck before giving way. In in the second she was stymied his great green hand reached for her throat, closed around it and began to squeeze.

His fingers dug deep into the pressure points, pinching the nerves and rendering her body limp and useless. The axe and sword fell from her hands – only pure stubbornness on her part keeping her eyes open even as she was lifted bodily from the ground. The Orsimer grunted, increasing the pressure on her neck, wanting to look her in the eye as he wrenched every last breath from her body. With her consciousness slipping rapidly away from her, Myrna was powerless to stop him.

_But you _could_ stop him, _a voice taunted from within her mind. A smooth voice - a _Dovah_ voice.

Mirmulnir.

_You know the words. Are they wasted on you, mal mey? For all your gifts, are you a craven yet?_

'_I am no craven,' _she thought grimly, using all her will to keep her eyes open despite their feeling as if they were about to pop out of her skull. She opened her mouth, the word on the tip of her tongue, her strangler's hand preventing her from taking the breath to give it sound. This was it. This was her death. She might not be a craven but Divines take her she was most assuredly a fool of the worst kind. _Mal mey _indeed.

Her eyelids drooped. The dark was welcoming, inviting her further, to let go of life and follow it into Oblivion. Myrna was clinging to consciousness with her bare fingertips, sorely tempted by the siren song of the void until a familiar voice roused her, calling her name and dragging her back into the present.

_Vilkas._

"For the Companions!" he cried, and in an instant Myrna felt herself falling, the grip on her neck suddenly releasing and granting her a chance to take a shuddering and sorely-needed breath. She crumpled to her knees on the ground, coughing violently and tasting blood. Gazing up through bloodshot eyes she saw the brutal form of the Orc beserker, towering over her now with the point of Vilkas' greatsword protruding from his chest. Long seconds passed, until Vilkas finally withdrew the mighty blade in a spray of crimson, roaring with the effort.

This was a wound from which the Orc could never recover. He remained standing for a moment before collapsing like a felled tree, forcing Myrna to throw herself to the side to avoid being crushed.

"Now that," she said croakily, grinning up at her panting comrade, "_That _was a fight."

* * *

><p>Vilkas could scarcely believe what he was hearing. He threw his blood-soaked sword to the ground, the pain of his bruised ribs quite forgotten as he marched over to the laughing woman – his utter fury etched upon his face.<p>

"You think this is _funny_?" he accused, glaring down at her. Myrna held her head between her raised knees, straining to regain the even breathing that had been wrenched from her only moments ago. "I thought you said you had scouted this camp? You didn't see this… _thing, _this _abomination?!_"

He kicked out at the gargantuan corpse, lying satisfyingly still upon the cold ground before them. Myrna said nothing, rubbing at her sore neck with the palm of her right hand. Vilkas took her silence as license to continue.

"Of all the stupid, _idiotic_…" he ran his hands through his blood soaked, sweat-sodden hair in exasperation. "For a minute I thought he had… I thought you were –"

The last word hung, unspoken, the pain in his voice shaking them both. The smile died on Myrna's lips. She looked up at him guiltily, large brown doe's eyes meeting his so that in an instant he felt the guilty one for speaking to her as he had. Her eyes were just as dangerous as that smile of hers. Vilkas turned away, looking anywhere but at that beautiful face for fear of what he might do, unsure whether he wanted to kiss her or wring her neck himself for being so fucking _reckless_.

"I know," she admitted quietly, glancing sidelong at the body of her would-be murderer. "I made a mistake. A stupid one that nearly cost me my life – and yours." She swallowed, wincing. "I should have known it was too easy, should have known my first count was right and not let my guard down. I'm just… I'm _sorry_, alright?"

She took a shuddering breath, her eyes becoming shiny in the last glowing embers of the camp fire. Vilkas drew back, the beginnings of cold panic writhing within his guts. Give him eight foot beserkers armed to the teeth, give him a coven of screeching hagravens, hell, give him _dragons _and could at least take an educated guess at what to do… but a woman crying? He was utterly out of his depth.

Vilkas normally relished quiet, after all it was hard enough to come by in Jorrvaskr, but this sudden quietness was more uncomfortable than he could bear. He felt compelled to say something, _anything_, to break the awkward silence. Flattery should do it. Women liked that.

"You know," he began carefully, "That was some pretty impressive archery back there. Before things turned to shit, anyway."

To his immense relief she smiled at that, wiping away the tears that threatened to fall on the back of one of her leather gauntlets. "It was rather, wasn't it?" she agreed, breaking into a wide grin that he found himself returning. Vilkas told himself that his smiling was only down to his amusement at her arrogance, despite knowing it was something else entirely. That smile was infectious. Wordlessly he offered a hand to her which she accepted, allowing him to pull her to her feet.

"Seriously though," she said quietly, keeping hold of his hand, "I'm glad you decided to follow me out here, Vilkas. I think we both know what would have happened if you hadn't been watching out for me. Thank you."

Before he could make a move to stop her Myrna wrapped her arms about him, pressing her body to his in a hug. Vilkas felt his back stiffen. The gesture was one he had seen her make towards Farkas before, but never towards himself. Unlike his brother Vilkas had never been one for outward displays of affection, and the fact that he did not immediately hate this sudden and unsolicited closeness came as a complete surprise to him. Her head rested against his shoulder and he realised he could smell her hair, soft against the stubble of his jaw. She smelled divine - of honey and apple and spices. _Her scent,_ he recalled from his days as a wolf, when all his senses were as clear and finely honed as a blade's edge. It felt like a lifetime ago, but the memory of that sweet smell had stayed with him even after the cure.

Unsure of what to do with his hands, Vilkas placed them gingerly on her back, not daring to move until the moment had passed. He did not realise he had been holding his breath until Myrna finally released him and he was forced to inhale sharply.

"Are you hurt?" she asked, mistaking his deep breath for a gasp of pain. She pulled away, concern crossing her pretty features in a flash.

"Not especially," Vilkas assured, tapping his undamaged breastplate as if to show her there was no real harm done. "A bruised rib or two, nothing broken. What about you?"

Reaching out he swept aside a lock of her hair, revealing her lovely neck, the pale flesh mottled by stark black and purple bruises from the bandit chief's savage fingers. He frowned, reminded of how close he had been to losing her. His own heart had stopped in those horrible moments when Myrna's eyes had fallen closed, truly believing that his Harbinger was dead and he had failed her, just as he had failed Kodlak.

Myrna's palm went to her throat, snapping him out of his brooding thoughts and he withdrew his hand from her hair. She rubbed at the chafed and battered skin, smiling weakly at him. This time Vilkas could not echo her smile, the frown remaining resolutely on his lips, still staring at the evidence of her injuries.

"I'll live," Myrna said, trying to sound more cheerful than she actually felt. Her hands were still shaking a little, she hoped if she ignored it Vilkas would miss it too. "Nothing a healing potion and a poultice or two won't solve anyway. Right now I could use something to eat… how do you feel about looting?"

She winked at him and nodded in the direction of the bandit's cave hideout behind them. Folding his arms, Vilkas quirked an eyebrow at her. "Don't tell me you've come all the way out there with no food in your pack, Harbinger."

Myrna rolled her eyes and tutted incredulously. "I'll have you know I've got a week's worth of rations and that dreadful dried meat Tilma cures, thank you. I'm not quite that unprepared."

"You'd bring a week's worth of rations to hunt bandits less than a day's travelling from Whiterun?"

Vilkas knew he had her then. It was evident in the way she couldn't quite meet his eye, though she did not turn away from him.

"Perhaps I over packed some," she conceded, "I like to be thorough."

"As you are in your scouting."

Myrna tensed. _That_ stung.

"I'll have you know my scouting was sound," she said, irritated now. "I counted ten, and ten there were. I just –"

"Missed the eight foot giant on the second count?" Vilkas supplied dryly. Myrna glared up at him, unsure if he was merely teasing her or whether he was genuinely admonishing her. Damn the man, he was so hard to read.

"Everyone makes mistakes Vilkas. Even you. I saw you get clobbered in the training yard the other day, by your own brother no less." She smirked as his eyes grew wide in surprise at the revelation. "Oh yes, I saw that. I thought by now you'd know when to duck, but it seems even the best of us be taken off our guard sometimes. The most important thing is to from our errors of judgement, and take pains to make sure they do not happen again."

Vilkas was still reeling from the fact that she had witnessed his humiliation. He had been sure she had not seen, positive she was too engrossed in her conversation with the whelps to notice him and Farkas across the yard. The woman must have eyes in the back of her head!

Myrna grinned, picking up her fallen weapons from where they had fallen, pleased to have reclaimed the upper hand from the surly warrior. "I'm going to see if the departed Vipers kept anything decent to eat in that cave over there. You're welcome to join me, if you wish – after all, there might be a _nine _foot giant lurking inside that you'll need to rescue me from."

She winked at him again and turned on her heel, starting towards the cave and making a show of raising her blades so there could be no doubt she was ready for action if there was any more to be had. Vilkas stared after her dumbly for a moment. The night was drawing in, it made sense to head for shelter, depending of course on whether said shelter was safe. He collected himself first, and then his sword from the ground, wiping the remainder of blood from the blade onto the Orc's massive corpse as he followed the Harbinger to the Vipers' den.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Thank you again to all those following, favouriting and especially to those who have left such lovely reviews. I can't promise all my updates will be as frequent as they have been recently, but I will endeavour to try. I like to keep myself a few chapters ahead of what I publish so I don't stress myself out too much (lol) and it may interest some people to learn that I am currently working on a chapter featuring one Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak... but more than that I will not say. Enjoy, and please R&R if you have time!**

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><p>There were no giants in the cave, as it turned out. Nor were there adversaries of any description, though Myrna and Vilkas were sure to investigate all the way to the back of the cavern just to be on the safe side. There they discovered a tunnel, almost completely secreted by the same creeping moss that covered the cave's entrance. Vilkas seized a torch and thrust it into the glowing coals of the ailing fire. After a little persuasion the oil caught light, its flames casting lively shadows on the walls of the passage as he took the lead with Myrna following behind, her weapons at the ready. The path grew so narrow in one place that Vilkas was forced to turn sideways to accommodate his broad shoulders, but soon it opened wide into a large room, pitch dark except for the torchlight he held in his hand. There was nowhere further to go after that. A few feet from where they stood was a lake of crystal clear water, eerily still except for the few milky white cave fish swimming blindly beneath the surface.<p>

Satisfied that there was no secret route to the surface from here and they were not likely to be ambushed at least for the present, the companions lowered their weapons and seized the opportunity to take a drink and wash the blood and sweat from their skin. The water was as cold as death but it tasted sweet; it soothed Myrna's sore throat as she swallowed long draughts of it cupped between her hands. The fish soon disappeared, startled by the splashes as Vilkas began his bath. Kneeling he took a ragged piece of cloth from his pack, soaked it, then rubbed it coarsely over his face removing dirt and warpaint alike. Using her hands Myrna wiped her own face, shuddering as the cold water trickled from her chin and down her neck.

The cold did not seem to bother Vilkas. His fingers worked the clasps of his armour, and soon he was pulling his cuirass over his head and discarding it on the cold stone floor. The clatter it made echoed all around the chamber, sending droplets of water falling from the roof upon the lake's surface like rain. Wetting the cloth again he began work on his chest, the icy water drawing away the sweat and grime and soaking the dark hair that covered his muscled body. Returning the cloth to the lake he wrinkled his nose at the cloud of filth that it left behind, hanging suspended and staining the otherwise unspoiled water. He wrung out the excess and glanced up, a sideways smirk spreading across his face when his eyes met with Myrna's. She was watching him.

"Enjoying the show, Harbinger?" he asked bluntly, his grin widening when she snapped her eyes away sharply and returned her attention to the pool in front of her. Myrna's face was burning, sure that she was blushing to the very tips of her ears at being caught staring. She scrubbed at her face with renewed vigour, perhaps hoping that she could wash away her shame with the paint and dry blood that dripped from her cheeks. In honesty she had only been thinking how different Vilkas looked without his customary dark warpaint smeared around his eyes. Without it he seemed less intimidating, somehow. Of course, she had been thinking _that_ before he had caught her eye and assumed her totally innocent observation to be sordid voyeurism. Every second she could not find the words to rebuke his comment only served to convince him further.

"You can scrub my back for me, if you like," Vilkas offered, still grinning insolently. He knew he was making her uncomfortable, and apparently he had neither the grace nor the inclination to drop the subject there. Oh no - he was enjoying this far too much.

"Shut up."

His laughter filled the chamber and Myrna gritted her teeth, rather wishing the ground would open up and swallow her, or better yet, that it would swallow Vilkas instead. Arrogant bastard… she was sure he was taking his sweet time now, whistling some tavern song while he squeezed the cloth out over his back and torso, not even shivering as the freezing droplets touched his skin. Nords might not feel the cold, but Myrna certainly did. She pulled the torch up from where it had been driven into the loose, sandy earth, the heat from the flame a welcome relief from the frigid air that surrounded them. She began tapping her foot while she waited for Vilkas to hurry up and put his damn armour back on, unable to miss the way the muscles of his wet back rippled and shone in the reflected light.

The show wasn't half bad, at least.

At last he was dressed again and they headed out into the main chamber to investigate what spoils the bandits had left for them. The cavern was stacked almost from the floor to the limestone ceiling with crates and barrels containing all manner of things from food and ale to books and clothing, the majority of which seemingly untouched. Evidently the criminals that had once resided here had made more than a living out of robbing innocent merchants and travellers, and left unchecked by the authorities had managed to turn it into something of an art form. There must have been tens of thousands of Septims' worth of goods here; they could have been living like kings with the proceeds of their crimes. Instead it seemed they had been quite content to live like animals, bedding down on skins upon the grimy floor of their hideout, drowning their wits with a mixture of drink and skooma judging by the myriad of empty bottles scattered about the place. Myrna wondered how many of their victims still lived and how many of these chests and containers had been paid for in blood. She suspected it was more than a few.

Vilkas left Myrna to sift through the loot, sensing she had an eye for such things. She pointed out a pile of weapons and armour to him, perhaps thinking he might find something to his liking there. He barely gave it a second glance. Taking mail that once belonged to another just didn't sit right with him and besides, he was quite content with the armour he had. Instead he busied himself with the fire, adding wood and dry brush strategically until he had coaxed it back to life, satisfied that the placement of the rocks in the cave mouth would prevent the light from escaping and advertising their presence. Not that anyone with any sense would be walking through the woods this far from the road. Not everyone was as foolhardy as Myrna.

Vilkas wondered briefly if he should do something about the bodies outside then decided against it, reasoning that even if they did attract any wild animals they wouldn't come inside while the fire kept burning. He settled himself on a log bench and poked at the ashes with a stick thoughtfully, gazing over the flames to watch Myrna go about her work.

The Harbinger was in her element, rooting through the plunder like a child at a tray full of desserts, giving little appreciative hums and low whistles whenever she found something of particular interest. She tossed the flickering torch into a brazier, immediately illuminating the whole cavern and freeing both her hands for use. A lot of the food she discovered was spoiled, or at least smelled questionable; finding a barrel full of almost-fresh apples was a welcome sight and a great relief to her growling stomach. She tossed one across to Vilkas at the fireside and he caught it deftly with one hand, smiling to himself at the excited look on her face when she came across a chest full of potions.

Selecting a health potion she downed it in one, the bitter liquid soothing the pain in her throat far better than the water had. She placed a few vials in her pack, knowing the value of such items in a land where magic was mistrusted on the whole. Apothecaries were few and far between as it was, and such was her haste to be on the road she had neglected to pack her collection of health potions before she left Whiterun.

The next chest she came upon refused to budge when she tried the lid, thus piquing her curiosity. Never one to pass up a chance to solve a puzzle, Myrna reached into her belt and withdrew two long thin metal pins. Her lockpicks.

"What are you doing now?" Vilkas asked.

Myrna bent to inspect the lock, probing experimentally with one of the pins. "What does it look like?" she said flatly.

He chuckled and rose from his seat, moving to study the wooden crate that had so engrossed her for himself. It was nothing special, comprising merely of pine boards and iron metalwork. "You could simply destroy the hinges, you know. Save yourself some time."

The look she gave him was beyond scorn. "_Nords_…" she sighed to herself, shaking her head as if he had suggested something truly outlandish.

Vilkas laughed again and settled back, leaning upon a crate and folding his arms across his chest. He observed as she inserted a thin wrench into the keyhole, turning slowly and carefully, her ear close to the metal as she listened for the tell-tale click. There was a _ping _as the wrench snapped and flew somewhere over Vilkas's shoulder. Myrna whipped her head around to glare at him, as if daring him to comment on her error. Vilkas wisely remained silent; besides he was rather enjoying the view of her pert hind quarters, resplendent in her snug doeskin leggings as she bent over her task.

Finally, after a lot of fiddling and at least two more broken picks the lock gave, making the click Myrna was waiting for. "Quite the little criminal aren't you?" said Vilkas, impressed at her tenacity rather than her skill. He would have given up and battered the thing a long while beforehand.

The smile she turned to him was wide and toothy. "You have no idea," she replied, the mischief in her tone plain - the wink she followed it with even more so.

Neither of them saw the troll until it was too late.

* * *

><p>The beast had first been lured by the smell of blood from the bodies littering the campsite, unable to resist the tantalising scent of fresh meat from within the cavern. Live prey was always preferable to dead flesh; the feeling of hot, still-pumping blood in the mouth always tastier than when it had become cold and coagulated. As silently as its hulking, clumsy frame would allow it followed the voices, creeping around the fire in the cave mouth. All trolls hated fire, and this one was no different. It knew all too well how the treacherous flames could ensnare him in their grasp, draining its life before it could regenerate. This troll had met humans before, and dim as it was, it knew it would have to be quick, and kill them swiftly before they had a chance to react. The primitive creature lurked in the haven of the shadows and waited for its chance.<p>

It all happened very quickly. With a bloodcurdling howl the troll bolted over the weapon stash and over a stack of barrels, slamming into Vilkas with all its weight and landing upon Myrna, knocking to her to the floor and pounding her torso heavily with both fists. Though her leather armour could protect her from the stab or slash of a blade, it provided little cushioning against the relentless barrage the troll rained down upon her. She was pinned on her back, the weight of the troll pressing her down into the floor. All she could do was try and hold it off. Myrna kicked out at its hairy body, trying to free herself, clawing desperately at the third eye in the centre of its skull. Unarmed and trapped she was no match at all for the beast's sheer strength and brutality. Blood exploded from her nose as a fist connected with it and she cried out in pain, droplets of crimson flying into the troll's wide open mouth as it screeched and hollered wildly. The taste of her on its tongue only served to fuel its wild bloodlust and rage; it focused his blows on her unprotected head even as she threw her arms up to protect herself. It knew humans were soft, that their skulls could only take so much damage, and their brains even less. As soon as she was still, it would do the same to the man.

Vilkas had been knocked clear off his feet by the creature. His head struck upon the corner of a crate where it split the skin, the blood spilling into his eyes and furthering his disorientation. There was no time for him to get his bearings properly. In a blind panic he reached for his greatsword and began hacking at the animal with his blade, trying to pierce the thick hair and hide, anything to stop it from smashing the Harbinger's skull as she lay at its mercy. His attacks were to little avail, for the troll could regenerate its health just as quickly as he could hurt it – a dark magic common to the foul creatures of Oblivion's planes. Vilkas roared in fury and frustration, praying to the gods for a miracle…the only thing that could save them now. The Gods did not keep him waiting for long.

"_FUS!"_

Thrown backwards by the invisible force the troll flew through the air, crashing heavily into a tower of boxes and the brazier Myrna had lit mere minutes before. The brazier wobbled fell with a crash, the flaming oil within soaking into the troll's hair covered body and turning it into a living fireball. Screeching in agony the animal lunged itself at Vilkas, clawing at the disorientated warrior frantically until the flames took hold and ended its wretched life. Staggered as he was by the blast Vilkas had somehow managed to keep his footing. Completely dumbstruck he stood, swaying slightly, trying to figure out what the hell had just happened. He could not afford to think more upon it; for now the fire was spreading across the wooden crates, sending acrid black smoke billowing into the air. He needed to find Myrna.

To his immense relief he didn't have to look far. The woman was still lying prone on the ground where the troll had been upon her, unmoving. For another heart wrenching moment he thought she was dead - it was only when he scooped her into his arms Vilkas saw that she was awake, wide eyed and murmuring something intelligible from behind the hands she had clamped to her mouth. The smoke swirled, thick and suffocating, but thankfully the direction he chose to stumble in was the right one and in seconds they were outside where the air was fresh, cold and clean.

Breathing heavily, Vilkas wondered if trouble followed the Harbinger or if it was simply bad luck that had almost killed them both twice in the space of one night. This time had been his fault, he thought guiltily – he had been idly staring at the woman's arse when he should have had his eyes fixed firmly on the cave's entrance. That troll should never have got past him, and if Myrna had been killed this time the blame would have been set entirely at his door. The thought made him feel ill.

He tried to set Myrna down on her feet only for her to buckle to her knees on the ground, holding her head in her hands and muttering strings of words that he could not make any sense of. He dropped onto his own knees, seizing her by the shoulders and hauling her up to face him. Her eyes were wide and unseeing, and blood dripped steadily from her battered nose. She simply stared straight through him as though he were not even there.

"Harbinger!" he shouted, feeling her trembling beneath his hands. When she did not respond, fear began to grip at him. Had she taken leave of what little sense she had? Not knowing what else to do, Vilkas took her shoulders again and shook her roughly. "Damn your eyes Myrna, answer me!"

Her answer was no more than a quick glance into his eyes and back, but it was enough. The muttering ceased, her breathing deepened, and Vilkas felt himself relax as she began to return to him.

"Myrna?" he ventured, keeping his voice calm and level. He loosened his grip on her shoulders slightly, breathing his relief when her dark eyes met his fully and blinked. "What happened back there… what _was _that?!"

Myrna blinked again. "Thu'um," she said simply, as if that answered everything.

"Thu'um," Vilkas repeated, testing the word. He furrowed his eyebrows to accompany his deep frown. If there was some logic in that statement then he had missed it. Of course he had heard of the Way of the Voice, the ancient words of the dragons of old, in favourite tales of heroes and dragonslayers that Tilma used to tell Farkas and himself when they were boys. Thu'um could be learned still, but it took years of study; it simply made no sense to assume that the Harbinger had taken the time to learn the Words from the Greybeards. She had not been in Skyrim all that long, and all the time she had been off fighting wars or training at Jorrvaskr under his watchful eye. Vilkas had seen nothing much unusual about her back then, apart from the wilful stubborn streak that was second only to his own.

"And how then have you come to know the Thu'um?" he asked, half expecting her to admit to him that she was pulling his leg, and that it was a localised earthquake or some other completely natural occurrence that had dealt with the troll and set the cave on fire. What he didn't expect was the answer she gave, nor did he expect to believe her. But he did. Why would she lie? And what other explanation could there be? Kodlak had written is his own diary that she had come to him in his dreams, a powerful warrior that would take up his mantle and lead the Companions to glory. Kodlak had seen her for what she truly was when all Vilkas could see was yet another whelp, just another pretender to the honour and fame of their order.

How wrong he had been.

Myrna wiped the blood from her nose with the back of her greaves. She wasn't sure how she should feel. On the one hand, she had summoned her courage and used the power she had hidden from these many months, on the other she had just told Vilkas she was the Dragonborn and he had not said anything for quite a long time. A worrying amount of time, in fact. Did he think her mad? She rather felt it in truth, for the whole situation was ludicrous from start to finish. She hardly dared to meet his eye, though when she did she saw nothing untoward in his gaze except for quiet contemplation.

"Do you believe me, Vilkas?" her voice was quiet, quivering with uncertainty.

"I do," Vilkas replied without hesitation. "You are many things Myrna, but a good liar is not one of them."

Myrna laughed aloud, the great weight she had been carrying for so long finally lifting from her shoulders. Even Vilkas smiled with her, just a little, before returning to his usual impassive expression.

"To that end," he continued levelly, "I hope now you will honour me by telling me the _whole _truth. For what reason are you travelling out here alone? And if you say you are hunting bandits again I swear by Ysmir's beard I will end you here and now, Dragonborn or no."

She ran her hands through her hair, her chestnut locks a tangled mess once again, wondering where she should begin. "Do you remember, before we met, the dragon that attacked outside Whiterun?" Vilkas nodded. "I was part of the guard that brought it down. I'm not going to lie to you Vilkas, it was one of the most frightening things that I've ever experienced."

Myrna paused, glancing up again at him. Vilkas said nothing, gazing at her intently and waiting for her to continue. Swallowing, she obliged.

"After we killed the beast, something… odd happened. Its body combusted before our eyes, then there was flame and white light and this… _energy_… took hold of me. I swear I had never been so scared in my life, it felt awful – like I was being ripped apart from the inside out. I thought the same thing had happened to the others but no, it was just me. That's when they named me Dragonborn, Dovahkiin – _me_, Vilkas! I had never even heard the legends until that day, and suddenly I had this power… _Thu'um_ within me and when I Shouted for the first time –"

"-The Greybeards answered." Vilkas finished for her. He remembered that day well. He and Farkas had been desperate to join the fight against the dragon outside the city walls and both were crestfallen when Kodlak denied them. The old man reasoned that it was too close to the full moon; they could not risk the beastblood getting the better of them now that they had chosen to renounce it as a curse. Knowing Kodlak was right did not make his refusal sting any less. Vilkas had spent that night in his room, gritting his teeth as he wrestled with his wolf's spirit, envying his brother's ability to give up the Change with apparently little trouble.

Later that night they heard the call, the Greybeards' combined voices rending the sky and causing the very ground to shake with the power of their Words. He had raced to Kodlak for an explanation, and found his mentor writing in his diary. "It is the Dragonborn," was all Kodlak had answered, a strange smile playing upon his whiskered face. Vilkas had laughed at the whimsical notion, thinking the old man was jesting with him. Somehow it didn't seem quite so hilarious now.

Myrna wrung her hands and looked down to her knees. She couldn't bear to look at him as she divulged this final part of her tale, the part that filled her heart with shame. "They called me," she confirmed, trying her best to keep her voice even and almost, _almost_ succeeding. "I had no idea what to do. All I wanted was a simple life – as normal life as I could get. I never wanted _this. _It's all just so… big. I'm not a legendary hero, I'm just a woman who can swing a sword, fire an arrow and hit a target." She was worrying at the buckle that fastened her bloodied left glove nervously, taking a deep breath before going on. "So I didn't answer the Greybeards. I didn't go to High Hrothgar. I just wanted to hide away from it all, the war had not yet really begun, so I-"

"-Joined the first band of sellswords that would take you in," Vilkas said coolly, the corner of his mouth turning up slightly at one side.

Myrna let out a long breath, smiling back at him ruefully. Tears stung her eyes, she focused all her remaining willpower to hold them back in the silence that fell between herself and her brooding comrade.

"Do you think me a coward, Vilkas?" she asked finally, even though she was afraid of his answer.

Vilkas regarded her with careful thought. She was correct, outwardly she did not look like any of the heroes he had imagined from the tales of his boyhood. She was too short, too slight, nothing at all like the pictures of brawny Nordic warriors he had painted in his head. But this was _Myrna. _His Harbinger – loyal, strong and brave to the point of sheer recklessness. She was the most amazing, beautiful, _infuriating _woman he had ever met in his life, but a coward? Never.

"What I think," he replied measuredly, "Is that you were overwhelmed, and understandably so. There has been no Dragonborn in these lands for centuries, the Divines know even _dragons _were dismissed as mere legends until a few months ago. You needed time to make sense of things – that too is understandable. Better that you answer your calling late than not at all. So to answer your question, no. I do not think you are a coward, Myrna."

At once Myrna's shoulders sagged with relief at his words. Vilkas was not the sort of man to placate or coddle, nor was he one to suffer fools. Myrna could not stop herself from beaming, wondering when exactly the moody, taciturn warrior had become more than just her shield-brother and become her friend.

When she leaned towards him this time Vilkas was prepared for the hug. Myrna's arms wrapped around him, embracing him heartily; he hoped it was not inappropriate for him to settle his own hands about her waist in return. _Gods _it felt so good just having her in his arms, so close to him, his heart skipping beats as he breathed her in once more. A man could definitely get used to this.

Unfortunately Myrna pulled away before he could get the chance. The Harbinger smiled warmly, blissfully unaware of the thoughts that had just been racing through his head. Vilkas forced himself to glance aside, afraid that his eyes might linger upon hers for too long and give him and his feelings away.

Myrna was tired of kneeling. In fact she was tired in general - exhausted even. Shifting, she stretched her legs out in front of her and crossed them at the ankles, leaning back to gaze at the stars above them. "So now you know everything," she announced wearily. "Don't ask me to explain why the Divines chose me for this. I can only hope that the Greybeards can offer me some guidance, because truth be told I have no idea what I'm doing. I'm not much of a leader, and I'm even less of a hero. But this is my burden - I can ignore it no longer, and it is one I alone must face."

"No," Vilkas interjected. "Not alone." Myrna jerked her head up at that, eyeing him quizzically. "What? You think I would return to Jorrvaskr and leave you alone after telling me this? Must I remind you again what it means to be a Companion? We fight together. Always. Your task might be bigger than our usual contracts, true, but it is to be treated no differently. So when you make your pilgrimage to High Hrothgar it will be with me at your side." His eyes narrowed as Myrna opened her mouth to speak. "No arguments."

Her lips curled up again in amusement, knowing there was no point in further quarrel. "Very well then, shield-brother. You have my thanks, for what it's worth."

Vilkas grunted in acknowledgement. "We should rest here tonight. We have a long journey ahead of us."

"What, you mean camp out in the open?"

"Would you rather sleep in the cave?" He gestured towards the rocks behind them, now spewing smoke from the fire raging within. Myrna shook her head, though she grieved a little for the beautiful furs and skins that had no doubt been destroyed by now. The campfire could be rekindled easily but she did not relish the thought of sleeping upon the cold hard ground without some sort of bedding. By the _Nine _how she despised trolls.

Vilkas had already begun arranging firewood in the pit, stacking logs on top of the white ashes of the bonfire that had blazed there previously. Myrna smiled to herself, still amazed that he had believed her strange tale so readily and eternally grateful that he had. Perhaps it was not such a strange tale to a Nord who had spent most of his adult life as a werewolf. He seemed much changed from the man he had been when she first came to the Companions' halls. Of course he was still broody, gruff and sharp-tongued when he had a mind to be, but somehow she found him easier to be around. Or at least she could spend more than five minutes in his company without feeling the urge to throw something heavy at his head. Just as well, now that he had insisted on accompanying her on her travels.

She glanced around the campsite, taking stock of the scattered bodies still lying where they had fallen. It would not be the most pleasant place she had ever spent the night, but certainly not the worst.

At least now she wasn't alone.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: I'm really sorry for the delay in updating, to be honest I've had a nightmare couple of weeks full of flu and various computer problems. I'm going to try and keep the updates regular if I can, but I have an exam coming up next week and I need to focus on that. I'd much rather be writing though - believe me! Also hello and massive thanks to all the new likers, reviewers and followers, and to all those who have been reading and stuck with me, I appreciate every single one of you and I love getting feedback! Hope you enjoy xxx**

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><p>Dawn broke over the horizon, turning the blue black clouds of the night into fantastic pink and orange shades, the warmth and light stirring the birds from their nests and into song. Myrna added a few more sticks to the fire, watching the flames devour the fuel hungrily as she warmed her face and hands. The heat was most welcome, she felt as if the night's frost had settled upon her just as it had over the camp, covering everything in a sheen of white that glistened in the sun's early rays. It might have looked quite beautiful, had it not been for the bodies of the Vipers gang littering the clearing. They too were covered in a dusting of dew long since turned to ice in the chill of the previous evening. The night had been bitterly cold – Myrna supposed her sheer exhaustion was the only reason she had been able to sleep without a roof over her head.<p>

She and Vilkas had agreed to depart by mid-morning and that they would sleep in shifts until then, sharing the remaining few hours equally between them. They would get some decent rest stopping over at the inn in Ivarstead before making the climb up the mountain to High Hrothgar monastery, Vilkas decided for them both. Myrna made no argument; the prospect of sleeping in a bed was more than welcome compared bedding down on the frigid ground of the camp. Not even the thick horse blanket she had found to cover herself with could shield her enough from the icy wind to stop her from shivering. Her sleep when it came had been broken and fitful, and when Vilkas came to rouse her to swap watch-duty she had already been wide awake.

Myrna was reasonably skilled in judging the time of day from the position of the sun and the length of shadows, yet she fancied she had lost an hour or so somehow, for mid-morning seemed to be approaching them much more swiftly than it had a right to. She glanced at Vilkas' sleeping form, wondering if it was possible that he had allowed her an extra hour of rest or if fatigue had simply addled her brain. Perhaps it was the latter – she certainly didn't feel rested, but then the previous night had been draining... to say the very least.

The body of the Orsimer giant was still just as they had left it, his gruesome features in no way diminished by the layer of silvery frost that covered him. Myrna tried not to look at him, loathe to think on how close she had come to death at his one remaining hand. Once she had happened to look up to catch sight of a fox attempting to make off with the beserker's severed arm. The red-furred animal met her eye for an instant and froze, seeming to consider for a moment before dropping its hefty prize and slinking guiltily away to the safety of the forest, tail held firmly between its legs. Thankfully that single fox had been the only creature bold enough to venture into the camp while they rested, despite the morbid temptation of the blood and dead flesh that surrounded them. One troll had been more than enough for one night; Myrna's chest and head still ached from defending her body from his pounding fists – her second near death experience of the evening. At least that time she had managed to save herself.

The strength of her Thu'um had been fantastic, a terrible and wonderful sensation that consumed her entirely and had left her shaking right down to the bone. Her senses flooded with the essence of the raw, primal magic surging through her body, leaving her lips in an explosion of invisible force - almost obliterating her foe with nothing but a single word. Fus. It echoed around in her mind even now, hours later, singing in her blood and deep within her heart. For the first time she truly believed in her Voice, her dubious gift, and it was better than anything she could have imagined; better even than what she had experienced vicariously in Mirmulnir's borrowed dreams and memories. She could still feel the dragon's presence within her soul, though he seemed to be slipping further away. He had not attempted to speak to her since she had used her Voice, despite the fact that the word she had used had been the very one she had stolen from his corpse. Even so, Myrna believed she had caught a glimpse of him as she had been drifting to sleep, baring his teeth at her in a sinister and sardonic smile.

A sudden sharp blast of wind came howling through the trees and Myrna pulled the horse blanket tighter around her shoulders. She thanked the Gods that Vilkas had declined when she offered it to him to sleep under. In fact he had almost seemed offended at the suggestion that he might need it. Nords were born into the cold harshness of their land, and they certainly did not let it get the better of them. Almost as soon as he had laid his head down upon the skins her fellow Companion had been fast asleep - his breathing deep, steady and with no trace of a shiver despite the frost.

Averting her eyes from the mesmerising orange flames before her Myrna turned to Vilkas, stretched out as he was on his side before the fire. Evidently at some point during his vigil he had found time to replace the harsh black kohl marks of his warpaint, making his closed eyes resemble two dark pits somewhere beneath the veil of jet black hair that had fallen over his face. In all the time she had known him Myrna had never seen Vilkas look so peaceful, his dark features relaxed and about as far from a frown as it was possible to get. He slept like the dead, silent and unmoving, despite Myrna's shuffling about around him as she fussed with her pack and tended to the fire.

The sun was climbing higher into what was fast becoming cloudless blue sky, bringing the hour of their departure ever closer. Myrna would not be disappointed to leave the Vipers' camp in the least, especially not now that the bodies around them were beginning to thaw out, creating a most unpleasant stench as the temperature rose. She wondered idly if they would be able to claim the bounty for their removal the next time they reached a hold, or if they would be turned away without any evidence to the fact. There were a lot of things Myrna would consider doing to make gold for the Companions, but travelling cross country with a severed head in her pack was not one of them. She had done it once before, bringing the heads of the Glenmoril hagravens to Jorrvaskr, but that had been at Kodlak's personal request. Feeling the sick weight of the evil crones' heads, their dead eyes glaring at her through the burlap sack she slung over her shoulder Myrna had sworn with every breath she would never do such a thing again as long as she lived. When they made the journey to Ysgramor's tomb Myrna had asked Farkas to carry the burden for her, which he did cheerfully and without complaint. Farkas could always be relied upon in such delicate situations, unless said situation involved spiders, of course.

After applying her own red war paint in streaks under her eyes Myrna rose to her feet, unable to put off the inevitable. She needed to wake Vilkas. An unnerving prospect, given that one the first things she had learned when she came to Jorrvaskr was how little he appreciated having his sleep disturbed.

"Vilkas?" she ventured in a low voice, cursing inwardly when he did not even stir. She tried again, louder this time, and again received no response; not even the flicker of an eye beneath its lid. There was only one thing for it.

Tentatively Myrna crouched down on her haunches by his side and reached out, not even knowing what exactly she was going to do to try and wake the inert warrior and dreading his response she finally did it. At first she reached towards his left pouldron but reconsidered quickly, reasoning that he would not even feel her hand upon him through the heavy armour. Only his face was exposed to the elements, one stubbled cheek resting upon the rolled blanket that served as a makeshift pillow. Holding her breath Myrna moved her hand towards him, speaking his name once more uselessly, knowing he could not hear her in the depth of his slumber.

Or perhaps he could. Before her glove came within a hair's breadth of his cheek Vilkas caught her wrist, his silver eyes flashing from beneath dark eyebrows, furrowed in the confusion of someone who was awake but not yet completely. Myrna yelped out an oath in surprise at his sudden movement, almost losing her balance and falling on top of him when he grabbed her. Thankfully she managed to steady herself - the moment was awkward enough as it was without adding more embarrassment to it.

For his part, Vilkas tried to restore order to his sleep-addled mind. He had not been dreaming, not that he could remember, but he could not be entirely sure he was awake even now. He had heard Myrna's voice in his dreams before on more than a few occasions, breathing his name into his ear as he made passionate love to her, their bodies entwined in a delightful tangle of limbs. After those most wonderful of dreams he always woke in a disappointingly empty bed, and later found himself unable to quite meet the Harbinger's eye at breakfast. This time however she was staring back at him, wide eyed and real, mere inches away from his face.

"You're hurting me," she said, tugging at the wrist he still held tightly in his hand.

That was enough to snap him out of it. Instantly he released her, suddenly fearful of how long she had been this close to him, whether he had truly hurt her or what he might have said to her in his unconscious stupor.

"Sorry."

To his relief she smiled, rubbing her wrist with her other hand. "That's alright, no harm done. I was trying to wake you, and not very well I might add. I must say I envy you – I don't think I slept even half as well as you did. Anyway, it's about midmorning, so time to go if you still want to reach Ivarstead before nightfall."

"Right," Vilkas replied, and he sat up and stretched. The hardness of the frozen ground had done nothing for the state of his back - that was for sure. He had few possessions to pack up, just his sword and a blanket, shouldering the former and folding the latter neatly to place in the bottom of his pack.

Myrna secured her bow and quiver to her armour with straps, wrapping the horse blanket around herself, the weapons forcing the cover out at weird and jutting angles over her back. In short she looked ridiculous.

"You're really bringing that mangy thing with you?" Vilkas asked incredulously.

"Only until I warm up," she assured, "I've been sitting still too long and I'm half frozen. I'll ditch it once we get to the main road - it does smell a bit… lived in."

He snorted. "That's one word for it."

There was no need for breakfast, for each of them had eaten one of Myrna's ration biscuits before she had taken to the bedroll. They were horrible things, dry and tasteless, but they filled the stomach and that's what counted. In fact they sat in the stomach like a stone – it would be a good few miles of walking before either of them could entertain the idea of eating again. Vilkas found himself lamenting that Brill had upped and left Jorrvaskr to become Jarl Vignar's steward; his cooking was much preferable to Tilma's often-scorched offerings. The Companions loved the old woman too much to make mention of it however, and so let her experiment with the cookpot as she pleased, hoping that one day she would make use of one of the cookbooks they left deliberately open for her to find. So far, no such luck.

At last Myrna had accounted for all of her various items and they could set off, easily finding their way through the forest in the daylight and back to the main road and towards civilisation.

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><p>Apart from a few wolves along the road, the journey was for the most part uneventful. Myrna chatted as they walked, passing idle opinion on various stone cairns as they passed, the songs of the birds in the trees, anything at all to break the silence between them. Vilkas would have preferred silence. He liked the peace, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his face and quietly contemplating their journey to the mountain that loomed on the horizon, its summit shrouded in thick white cloud as it always was. There was no telling what they would face when they got there, or even beforehand. These were strange times for Skyrim, Civil War and the Thalmor notwithstanding. If anyone knew what the return of the dragons could mean, it would be the Greybeards.<p>

Of course Myrna had explained it to him the night before, as she understood things. It wasn't that Vilkas did not believe her, far from it, but it was certainly difficult to make sense of. He was still struggling to comprehend that the Harbinger was the Dragonborn, let alone any of the rest. The sooner they had answers, the better.

Soon they came upon the Valtheim Towers, twin constructs straddling the White River supporting a crumbling stone bridge between. The Towers were a notorious hideout for bandits and often subject to raids by the Jarl's troops. Even the Companions had been enlisted to clear it out on a few occasions, but it seemed to do no good. Just as soon as one group was banished another group of ne'er do wells would set up home there, taking advantage of merchants and travellers on the road much as the Vipers had done. As they were the Towers seemed deserted, but even so Vilkas advised that they should ready their weapons and stay low in case trouble should rear its ugly head. After all, they had not been lucky thus far.

For once it looked as though they might pass by without incident, until they were spotted by a brown-haired Nord woman dressed in furs who had been cooking something indescribable over a fire in the shade of the rightmost tower. When she took finally took note of the travellers attempting to pass she abandoned her ladle to fumble with a sword, a thoroughly rusty article that looked as though it had seen much better days. For a moment she seemed uncertain, taking in their weapons and armour, unsure if she should venture some sort of threat to the pair or sound an alert to her fellows lurking within the ramshackle building. Unlike the simple merchants and laymen that usually passed this way the woman observed that these two strangers appeared to be capable warriors, and as such unlikely to part with the toll she and her gang extracted from those too weak or cowardly to challenge them.

The woman's beady eyes darted first to Myrna, who was drawing her bowstring slowly, then to Vilkas, who gripped his sword handle and glared back at her, daring her to make a move. After a short time of consideration, the woman decided she did not dare. Slowly she sat back down by her fire, retrieved the ladle and gave to pot a stir, as if that would somehow improve the condition of its contents. She stared very hard into the pot, pretending to ignore them as they passed her by, which suited everyone just fine.

Myrna waited until they were well out of earshot before she laughed. "Well Vilkas, I think that's the first time you've saved us a fight just by scowling," she teased, slinging her bow back over her shoulder.

"No. Not the first," he replied dryly, eliciting another throaty laugh from the Harbinger.

They crossed the river at a ford, following the rocky path leading them up into the mountain foothills. It had turned into a rather glorious day, almost hot by Skyrim's dubious standards, the sun high in the sky and the wind scarcely a whisper in the branches of the trees. Despite the nagging ache in his back from the previous night's uncomfortable bedding, Vilkas found he was enjoying the walk. It had been too long since he had left Whiterun, he had almost forgotten the simple pleasure of taking to the road, adventuring in the wilds outside of the city's walls without some contract to fulfil. For her part Myrna had fallen quiet, though Vilkas did not think it was the picturesque waterfalls and other pleasant scenery that had stilled her tongue. The Harbinger's brow was furrowed and a muscle worked in her jaw; her unease seeming to grow with every plodding step she took. She reminded him of a lamb going to the slaughter, and if what she had told him the night before was true, that analogy was not too far off the mark.

They came upon a trail of bones, leading them to the lair of another troll that had made its home in an undercrop below the path. The beast lumbered in the shadows, surrounded by the skeletons of animals and some unlucky soldiers that had been rostered to patrol in the area. Myrna noted remnants of Imperial armour and Stormcloaks among the dead – scouts - each likely hunting for the other and both taken unawares by the savage creature lurking below. Anger surged within Myrna's breast - her head still ached from the battering she had received the night before. How she hated trolls. She despised them. This one had not even noticed them yet, idling amongst the gruesome remains of its meals, remnants of the dead strewn around its filthy lair like playthings. She wanted to destroy it, to shout it apart using her Voice just like the other one, to feel the awesome power of her Thu'um rend the monster limb from limb. She knew she could, and deep within herself a slithery whisper insisted that she should. Mirmulnir's power was hers now, for good or ill.

The sound of Vilkas drawing his longbow brought her back from her thoughts. Myrna shook herself, forcing the dragon's voice in her mind to slink away from her consciousness once more. She took a deep breath and unslung her bow, knowing this was the best course of action, to use the element of surprise to bring death to their foe. Without training there was no knowing if she could even control her Voice to kill from afar, and there no fire to aid them if things did not go to plan.

No words were needed between herself and Vilkas; communicating only with a look and a nod they crept towards the ledge slowly and silently to line up their shots. From this distance they might be lucky enough to land a few good hits before the troll discovered them and had time to recuperate.

Myrna nocked an arrow and drew it back, watching the creature moving around and waiting for a target to present itself. A glance at Vilkas told her he was ready too, and at last the creature turned towards the light. Adjusting her footing a final time Myrna loosed her arrow, with Vilkas taking his shot a fraction of a second later. Both found their mark, embedding themselves deep in the troll's exposed chest, although unfortunately neither was a killing hit. The troll screeched in pain and fury, whirling around to search for its enemy, thankfully still unable to see the Companions on their cliff side perch. Again they loosed arrows in unison. Vilkas' would have struck home if the troll hadn't moved just a moment too soon; instead it stuck uselessly into the tangle of roots in the earth behind it. Myrna's arrow thudded into the troll's chest between the other two, in a blow that would have surely killed if her target had been a man.

This time the troll spotted them. At once it reared up on its stubby legs, tearing the arrows out of its flesh as if they were mere splinters and beating its breast with ham-sized fists. The hills around them echoed with a thunderous roar and Vilkas drew his sword. Dumb as they might be, trolls could be incredibly fast when they were enraged and by now this one was furious. It would not take it long to close the gap between them, but at least this time they were prepared for the attack. Before it could even make a move however Myrna had fired another arrow, sending a shaft right into the troll's third eye where it stuck, quivering, lodged deep within the animal's brain.

The troll was killed instantly. For a few uncertain seconds it wobbled until eventually losing its battle with gravity, falling backwards spread-eagled onto the sandy floor of its den. Another corpse to add to the boneyard.

"Nice shot," Vilkas said, trying not to sound as impressed as he really was. To hit such a small target from such a distance was nothing short of amazing. He desperately wanted to write it off as sheer luck, but something told him it was more than that. He wondered that the Harbinger might be able to show Aela a thing or two about archery, though he would never under any circumstances say that to the Huntress' face. Not if he wanted to keep all of his limbs attached to his body, anyway.

"Thank you," Myrna replied with a trace of a smirk. "At least that one went down without too much of a fuss."

"And you didn't set anything or anyone on fire this time. Well done."

"Funny," she shot back in a tone that suggested the opposite.

They weren't so far from Ivarstead now, and afternoon was creeping into evening. Their pace had slowed considerably, after all Myrna had very little sleep the night before; the very act of putting one foot in front of the other was all that was keeping her awake. She tried not to think about the fact that she would be climbing a mountain tomorrow, or about what the Greybeards might expect of her once she got there. Instead she focused on the promise of a night in a proper bed when they reached the Inn. It could be made of splinters and sackcloth for all she cared, as long as it was warm and dry and she wouldn't have to sleep with one eye and ear open for danger. Vilkas was feeling the ache in his legs as well, though he couldn't help but feel a little concerned about the almost zombie-like state of his shield-sister. After the third time Myrna tripped and nearly fell over a rock Vilkas made sure that he walked on the outside of the path, keeping Myrna on the inside and furthest from the edge of the cliff. Too many ridiculous things had happened to them already – the Harbinger tumbling off the path to her doom was not going to be one of them. Not on his watch.

At last they reached the top of the path, the rocky terrain at last levelling out and granting them an unobstructed view of the great mountain known to all as the Throat of the World. Kynareth's sacred mount. Even more than a mile away from its foot it seemed monumental, impossibly huge, so tall that the summit could not even be seen from the ground. The mountain top was shrouded by clouds as it always was, their usual white now stained in the red-orange glow of the setting sun.

Myrna held up a hand to shield her eyes from the waning light. "Wow. Just… wow. That is massive."

Vilkas did not answer, inwardly rolling his eyes at the redundant statement. He wondered why people felt it was necessary to state the blindingly obvious at moments such as this.

"Do you think there's really seven-thousand steps?" Myrna continued, craning her neck as if somehow that would grant her a better view.

"I suspect there are far more," he replied tersely, pressing on towards the small flickering lights in the distance - lights that promised the village of Ivarstead was not more than a few minutes away.

Myrna stared up at the mountain for a while longer before following, turning her amulet of Talos between her fingers absently. Staring up at the highest mountain in the known world she felt very small indeed. This was the place Nords had come for centuries to learn the Way of the Voice, those such as the mighty Ysgramor and even the Divine Talos himself. And Ulfric Stormcloak, she thought, trying hard not to allow an image of the man to enter her mind to accompany his name. She could not allow herself to be distracted by her emotions, not now that she was to present herself to the Greybeards. Trudging steadily towards the little village, Myrna prayed to the Nine Divines that they would judge her worthy of her gift.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: ****Oh dear me, I'm really really sorry about the delay in updates again. It's been a pig of a couple of months, computer issues, school issues, health issues, creativity issues, you name it. Many many thanks to all who are following, reading, reviewing, all of you. You're the best and I love you all :3 **

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><p>Ivarstead village was the sort of unhealthily close-knit community wherein everyone knew everything there was to know about their neighbours. Every night the same old faces would gather in the Vilemyr Inn to share what little gossip there was: how Fastred's incessant mooning about was driving both her parents to distraction, how Temba Wide-Arms had sworn to kill the next bear she saw with no weapons except for her own two hands, and a myriad of other trivial and banal nonsense. There was also talk that the Vilemyr could very soon be serving Black-Briar Mead - something many of the locals were rather excited about, for they had long ago tired of the bar's usual stock of bland meads and ales. However, if one were to ask the Innkeeper, Wilhelm, he would fiercely deny the rumours and suddenly become very interested in cleaning the bar, or the pots, or anything at all to prevent the conversation from going any further. The inn's resident bard, a pretty Nord maid by the name of Lynly, was no help on the matter either. At the very mention of the name Black-Briar she would stammer, fiddle with her lute strings and excuse herself to her room for a good hour or so afterwards. Somehow the inn's patrons did not believe the drinks menu would be changing any time in the near future.<p>

The night was drawing in when the inn's wooden door swung inwards, startling all those drinking and dicing within. All those who usually spent their evenings at the Vilemyr were already accounted for, and a few of them deep within their cups. Every head snapped towards the open door to see whose wife, daughter or mistress had arrived to drag one of their party back home. What they had not expected to see was a pair of strangers enter the establishment, so when Myrna and Vilkas stepped inside with their clanking weapons and armour the congregation stared as if they had each sprouted an extra head on their shoulders.

"Welcome to the Vilemyr Inn, friends!" Wilhelm called out, breaking the silence the gawkers had caused. He emerged from behind the bar and walked up to the newcomers, shaking them each firmly by the hand and shutting the door behind them. Trade was hard to come by in these parts, and he was not about to let these two escape without at least spending a little coin. "It's a bitter night, and you must have travelled far. Where have you come from? Are you in town on business? Do you need food, drink, perhaps a room?"

Myrna smiled at the man and his barrage of questions. She was practically able to smell his desperation for their custom. "Yes to all, thank you Innkeeper. We have come from Whiterun and plan to journey to High Hrothgar on the morrow."

"Aha! Pilgrims!" he exclaimed, as if he had guessed it himself. "We don't get many visitors to our little village, and most if not all come here for the mountain." He made a deep and inelegant bow. "My name is Wilhelm if it pleases you lovely lady, you are to call me if you need anything during your stay – anything at all. I can even have your refreshments delivered to your room if you prefer – oh! Let me show you the room we have! This way, follow me..."

At once he began making his way through the mismatched tables and chairs and the locals who were using them, clearly expecting them to follow. Myrna turned to Vilkas, who simply responded with a shrug. They followed Wilhelm around the firepit to the other side of the common room and then through a door to the right of the main bar.

The room was in no way luxurious, but it would definitely suffice. It contained nothing more than two rickety single beds with a small dresser placed between them. A little fire burned cheerily away in the hearth, probably far too close to the beds for safety, but warmth was warmth. Besides, should a coal stray from the fireplace they would probably wake in enough time to escape being burned alive.

Wilhelm began lighting candles, further illuminating the room. The candles were cheap and gave off a slight odour of horker fat, but aside from a little flickering did their job well enough.

"They are only small beds, I'm afraid. Though I suppose you could push them together, if you wanted."

The Innkeeper smiled nervously, and Myrna did not have to look at Vilkas to know that a wry smirk had spread across his face. She thought if this was the best the Vilemyr Inn had to offer then they had fallen on hard times indeed, and pressed a few extra Septims than she would normally expect to pay into Wilhelm's hand. "This will do fine, thank you Wilhelm. I wonder if you might fetch us some mead, and some dinner?"

The man's smile grew even broader and he seemed to relax some, knowing he had secured their business for the night at least. "I'm afraid we don't have anything much at this late hour, just some stew, though in the morning I can prepare some bacon, eggs, perhaps some sausages if it pleases you Mistress... er, what may I call you?"

"Myrna," she replied. "No need for formalities. And this here is Vilkas."

Vilkas nodded by way of greeting and began setting down his equipment upon the rightmost bed.

"Very well," Wilhelm practically beamed at them, heading for the door. "Please get settled in, I shall return with your refreshments shortly."

With that he was gone, and Myrna was finally able to throw her pack down on the floor along with her weapons and quiver. Though she had deliberately made sure it would not be too heavy, hours of constant walking coupled with her injuries from the previous night had made the little bag feel like she was carrying a small mammoth over her shoulders, and she was glad to finally be rid of it. She raised her arms above her head and stretched upwards, relieving her aches with a little groan that Vilkas tried hard not to think of as erotic in any way.

Myrna sat down upon what was apparently her bed, as Vilkas had now furnished his with his own blanket. She wished she had kept that horse blanket now instead of abandoning it by the side of the road – the blankets the inn offered were thin and tatty at best. At least they had a fire.

"You overpaid," Vilkas informed her curtly, as if she was unaware of the fact.

"I know," she sighed, removing her boots from tired, swollen feet. "You saw the man Vilkas, I thought he was going to cry if we didn't accept this room. A straw mattress is as good as any other, and I'm betting whatever Wilhelm serves up can't be any worse than Tilma's biscuits."

With that Vilkas could not argue. The ration biscuit he had eaten for lunch was probably hard enough to kill the troll they had encountered at a good fifty paces, and neither of them could bring themselves to even try the cured meat. He was looking forward to having something hot to fill his belly, nomatter what it might be. A flagon of mead to wash it down with might just improve what had been a very trying last twenty-four hours.

While they waited for the Innkeeper to return with their meals Vilkas drew his sword from its scabbard, examining the blade for damage and pretending not to watch Myrna removing the numerous pairs of socks and cloth wrappings from her feet. He knew other races sometimes struggled with Skyrim's harsh weather and were susceptible to frostbite should their extremities be exposed to the cold for too long, but surely three pairs of socks was a little extreme. It likely had something to do with Tilma – the old housekeeper fussed over the Harbinger like an old mother hen and it would be just like her to insist Myrna kept herself wrapped up, especially after being ill for so long. As for her illness, she seemed to have made a miraculous recovery. Perhaps it was the glory of returning to battle that restored the colour to her lovely cheeks, though Vilkas sorely wished she had not come so close to death in search of it. The sight of the dark bruises on her neck turned his stomach when he thought of how close her had come to losing her forever.

He watched her stretch her feet out before the fire, wriggling her toes to restore some feeling to them, and wondered again how such a dainty, delicate creature could also be the mighty hero Skyrim had waited an age for. A small part of him hoped that she was mistaken somehow, that this battle for the fate of life as they knew it was not truly hers to fight alone. That thought seemed even more ridiculous, not even his logical mind could come up with an explanation for why the dragons should return at precisely the same time a Breton girl appeared in Skyrim with the power of the Voice innate within her. The thing that troubled him most was the fact that throughout the years he had read many and more books containing tales such as this, and most of them ended with the hero sacrificing themselves for the sake of the world. He could not bear it if his Harbinger were to suffer a similar fate. Gripping his sword handle tightly, Vilkas swore a silent oath to the Gods that he would be by her side through all of it, to the bitter end if there was to be one – whether she wanted him there with her or not.

A knock on the door roused him from his rapidly darkening thoughts. Myrna stood to aid Wilhelm who was holding a large brass basin, a tray of stew and two bottles of Nord mead balanced precariously on top. He didn't have enough hands to wrestle with the door as well, so Myrna held it open for him while he shuffled inside. He set the basin down on the dresser and handed the tray to Myrna, smiling apologetically.

"Beef stew – again I'm sorry we had nothing else. Breakfast will be different though, I can promise you that. I've brought you some hot water too, in case you would like to bathe before you retire."

The Harbinger's eyes lit up at that. Hot water would be a most welcome treat after a hard day on the road. "That is most kind of you, Wilhelm," she said with a warm smile. Vilkas did not miss her slip another coin into the landlord's eager hand. She was too generous by half, and he made a note to ensure the apparently hard up barkeep didn't take advantage of her good nature.

Gold was like a tonic to Wilhelm. He practically grinned from ear to ear, and clapped his hands together enthusiastically. "Now if there is nothing else I shall bid you goodnight. You both must be eager to rest - after all you have a long climb ahead of you tomorrow. "

He made a strange little bow and at last he was gone. Myrna handed Vilkas a bottle and portion of the stew and sat down to eat, stowing the tray underneath the bed with her boots. Wilhelm was not being modest as it turned out; the stew really was nothing much, and Myrna was hard pressed to find any beef at all in the watery broth. The hunks of dry bread that came with it gave it a little more substance. Compared to travelling rations it was delicious, hot and seasoned well, even if it was more mushroom than meat.

Hunger sated she placed the empty bowl on the tray below, turning her attention to the steaming bowl of water on the dresser. She couldn't wait to get clean, every so often she kept catching a whiff of smoke in her hair, and a day in leather armour tended to make a person sweat even if the weather was cold. Sometimes she even thought she could smell the odour of troll on herself, but that was probably just paranoia on her part.

"Er, do you mind if I go first?" she asked Vilkas, who was mopping up the last of his stew with a crust.

"Go ahead."

Myrna gleefully began unbuckling her leathers, the cooler air feeling wonderful on her skin as she shucked off the breastplate and tossed it to the floor. She did not even care that she was stood before her shield-brother in only her leggings and breast-binding, especially when she brought the wet sponge to her neck and caressed it with the hot water, soothing her aches and purging the sweat and dirt from her skin. Forgoing her corset had been a good idea of hers. Tied tightly around her chest the linen band allowed her much more freedom of movement than her corset ever had, so much so that she wondered why she had ever bothered with the awkward uncomfortable thing. Then she remembered how Ulfric had always taken such pleasure in unlacing it, his long fingers working to free her breasts from their confines, lavishing them with his passionate affections and make her moan into his mouth in a kiss.

With a lurch she abandoned that perilous train of thought, suddenly remembering where she was and more crucially _whom _she was with. She fervently hoped that Vilkas had not noticed the colour that had risen her cheeks, though if he had she supposed she could claim it was the heat from the water. The heat between her legs could not be explained quite as easily, and she concentrated on the task in hand, scrubbing at her skin in earnest. _That man, _she thought with irritation. Months had passed since their last meeting and Ulfric could still make her tremble with a memory of their time together. Myrna cursed herself silently for her weakness, thinking that she might have benefited more from a cold water bath. She had bigger things to worry about at present than her restless libido.

Vilkas was staring. He could not help himself. Although her most interesting places were covered, he had never seen the Harbinger in such a state of undress before... except in his own shameful fantasies. As she swept the sponge across her milky skin he noted every bruise, every battlescar that had previously been hidden by her armour, now revealed to him by the candlelight. He drank in her delicate curves, imagining himself standing behind her, taking the sponge from her hands and smoothing it over her body, pressing his face into her neck and breathing in her wonderful scent. He wondered how hard he would have to tug on the material of her binding for it to fall away, what her breasts would look like underneath... A small voice at the back of his mind reasoned that he just might find out someday, _if _he was man enough to admit his feelings to her. Vilkas decided that voice was an idiot and began forcing himself to think of something else, _anything _else to distract himself from the tempting scene before him.

The heavy kilt he wore over his breeches would thankfully conceal just how deeply the sight of Myrna's bathing had affected him. He took a deep, steadying breath and uncorked the mead. It was nothing like the quality of that which they enjoyed at Jorrvaskr, more of a honeyed wine than actual mead; but it went down smoothly enough and without an unpleasant aftertaste. With few other options, it would suffice.

Her bath done, Myrna gave another long, satisfied sigh that almost made Vilkas choke on his drink. As he rose to begin his own washing ritual she rummaged in her pack, drawing out a loose-fitting shirt which she pulled over her head, wrapping her arms about herself so that it soaked the last of the dampness from her skin. Next she pulled out a hairbrush and sat at the end of her bed, undoing her braids and brushing her brown locks before the fire. Vilkas undid the clasps and buckles of his armour, carefully making sure his kilt would remain on when he removed his breastplate. Glancing over his shoulder briefly as he washed he noted that Myrna was keeping her back firmly towards him, working the tangles out of hair that now untied fell almost to the middle of her back. He would not catch her watching him this time, then.

Clean and with her hair finally to her liking, Myrna took her bottle of mead and clambered fully onto the bed and lay down upon the straw. The bedframe creaked and swayed a little with her weight, but compared to a night on the frigid ground outside it might as well have been a feather bed. Leaning with her back against the wall she took a long draught of her drink, allowing the mead to warm her insides.

"My legs and feet are so _sore_," she announced unnecessarily, knowing her shield-brother was feeling the ache of their long journey himself. "I can't believe we're going to climb a bloody _mountain_ tomorrow."

Vilkas merely grunted in response, in the middle of wiping his face with the rapidly cooling water.

"Why must the Greybeards live on a _mountain? _And not just any mountain, the tallest mountain in the whole sodding world?! Why not somewhere else, like a nice sunny beach?"

Turning to her Vilkas quirked an eyebrow. "There are no such places in Skyrim."

"Oh I know that," she replied, taking another sip of mead. "It's all cold, harsh, or cold _and _harsh. Luckily the people are all so jovial, or else it would be really depressing."

The sparkle of laughter was in her eyes, and Vilkas was powerless to resist returning her smile despite the fact that she was making fun of his homeland. He had never thought much on how Skyrim might seem to those who were not born there. He wondered if it was much different where Myrna had grown up, if it had been High Rock or somewhere else - for her accent had more than a touch of Cyrodiilic about it. Though his curiosity was piqued he decided not to ask about her life before she crossed Skyrim's borders. People tended to wax lyrical when they talked about their childhood, and it was far too late and he was far too tired to indulge her in such idle conversation tonight.

Luckily Myrna seemed to be thinking exactly the same thing. Placing her bottle on the dresser next to the basin she pulled up her blanket and slipped under it. The wool was a little scratchy, as was the straw of the mattress, but it was definitely warm and that's what counted.

"Goonight Vilkas," she yawned, turning onto her side for more comfort. "I'll not be pushing the beds together, if it's all the same to you."

"A pity," he replied, trying to make it sound more of a joke than he felt it was. By the time he had dried himself and got into his own bed she was already fast asleep. He glanced over at her, watching her blanket rise and fall with her steady breaths, glad that whatever challenges awaited them on the mountain they would be facing them together.

"Goodnight, Myrna," he said quietly, blowing out the candles and turning in for the night.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: Hey look, I'm updating again! I really appreciate every comment and follow I get on this story, it's been a long time in the making and is turning out far longer than I ever expected it to be! Please enjoy, and R&R if you would be so kind :)**

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><p>One of the things Vilkas certainly did not miss about being a werewolf was the inability to get a decent night's rest. The curse of the beastblood would hound him even in his sleep, forcing him to wake at the slightest noise in case that noise should mean his pack was in danger. Now he seemed to be catching up on all the sleep he had missed out on over the years, often taking to bed early and sleeping late into the morning. This was much to the consternation of Aela, who preferred the Circle members to rise early should a new job come in unexpectedly, or to deal with training the whelps. For the most part he ignored the Huntress on that count. She was not in charge of him, nor anyone for that matter, and the fact that her wolf's spirit had kept her up half the night was no reason for her to deny him his morning lie-ins.<p>

Somewhere between dreaming and waking he turned over in the little bed, keeping his eyes closed so that he could ignore the morning sunlight streaming in from the small window above. The wooden bed frame groaned mournfully with the shift of his weight, the grating sound upsetting his plans to ignore the rest of the world for another hour or two. He eventually sat up and yawned, forcing another loud creak from the bedstead. Finally when he had braced himself enough for the light to assault his eyes he opened them, blearily casting his gaze in the direction of Myrna's bed to see if she was awake only to find she was not in it. For a second he was concerned, until he heard the sound of her melodious laughter coming from the other side of the door and the unmistakable smell of breakfast.

Rising to his feet he pulled on his boots, fastened his armour and tried to rub the last traces of sleep from his eyes before heading through the door to find the Harbinger.

Myrna perched on a barstool fully dressed in her armour, a mug of steaming nettle tea in one hand. She chatted animatedly to Wilhelm the innkeeper, who was piling a plate high with bacon, sausages and other assorted breakfast foods. He placed it on the bar before her and she grinned her thanks, and was about to tuck in when she noticed Vilkas had emerged from the room and was making his way toward her.

"Aha! Here he is at last!" she laughed, beaming at the sight of his tousled and slightly dishevelled appearance. "I was beginning to wonder if I'd see you before lunchtime."

"You should have woken me," he replied, stifling another yawn with the back of his hand and joining her on the barstool to her right.

Myrna raised an eyebrow at the suggestion. "Right. Because you always respond to that so well at home."

Vilkas thought about protesting but decided she had a point. Besides, he was far too tired to argue, especially with his stomach growling the way it was. The so-called beef stew had filled the gap last night, but now he was hungry for some proper food. As if he had read his mind, Wilhelm appeared with a second plate and slid it across the bar to him. Vilkas grunted a thank you and the man nodded, resuming the task of cleaning glasses and setting up the bar for the day.

The food was good, as it turned out. There was bacon, sausages, eggs, fried tomatoes, blood-sausage, mushrooms, everything that made up a hearty Nord breakfast. Vilkas could not remember the last time he had eaten so well; probably when Brill had last worked in the Jorrvaskr kitchen. Damn Vignar for making the man his steward at Dragonsreach and depriving the Companions of his cooking skills.

Myrna had also thoroughly enjoyed the meal, somehow consuming it nearly as quickly as Vilkas had in between exchanging various pleasantries and idle talk with Wilhelm. They talked about the village, the weather, the state of business here at the inn - which to hear the man tell it you would have thought him to be living on the very precipice of poverty. Myrna did well to hide her amusement when the Innkeeper told her of the "ghost" haunting the barrows nearby, and agreed that they should probably steer well clear of the place. From the way she caught his eye Vilkas knew he was not alone in thinking there was more to Wilhelm's story than a supposed haunting. Myrna humoured him regardless, as was her way. Rubbing her satisfied stomach she reached for her mug, washing her breakfast down with the final dregs of her tea.

"Another, ma'am?" Wilhelm clearly enjoyed playing the dutiful host, filling her cup with a kettle from over the firepit when she nodded. He offered a cup to Vilkas who declined, asking instead for some water. He had never been one for tea, to him it tasted of nothing more than warmed-up dishwater.

Taking another sip of fresh tea, Myrna hummed appreciatively. "I always think a day that starts with bacon is already shaping up to be a pretty good day."

The Innkeeper barked a short laugh at that, placing a clay pitcher and cup in front of Vilkas. "Your wife is a woman after my own heart, my friend."

Myrna choked and spluttered as her tea went down the wrong way, fighting desperately to control herself as coughs gave way to laughter. "Oh no, _no! _Vilkas and I are not... I'm not his..."

The coughing began again, and Vilkas finished for her since she had embarrassed herself enough already. "We are not married," he said coolly, lifting the pitcher pouring himself a cup.

"Oh! It just seemed as if you two were..." thankfully Wilhelm stopped there and took a breath before he dug himself into a deeper conversational hole. "I see. Well then I apologise for the misunderstanding, both of you."

"Think nothing of it," Vilkas replied. "However I am disappointed to discover how amusing my shield-sister finds the notion of my being her husband."

Myrna looked up, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes. Whether they were tears of mirth or simply from choking was anybody's guess. "It's not that, it's just..." Then she noticed the corners of his mouth twitch upwards and realised he was joking. Myrna cuffed him lightly on the shoulder and took another swig of her tea, finally returning to calm.

"Shield-sister?" Wilhelm repeated, studying them both in turn. "Do you mean to say that the two of you are..."

"... Companions of Jorrvaskr." Vilkas supplied. "That we are."

"I grew up with tales of Ysgramor and the Companions when I was a boy," Wilhelm said, looking wistful. "I always wanted to join your order, back when I had fewer years under my belt and less aches in my bones." His expression changed to one of sadness. "I, ah, heard about what happened to your Harbinger. Kodlak Whitemane was a great man, by all accounts. Skyrim is lesser for his loss."

"Aye," Vilkas agreed. Myrna said nothing, solemnly looking down into her mug at the memory of the warrior she had succeeded.

Sensing he had turned the mood a little sombre, Wilhelm went on. "But you have a new Harbinger, now?"

Vilkas drained his cup and set it down. "Aye, we do. You've been serving her tea all morning."

Wilhelm's eyes went to to Myrna's mug, then Myrna herself, who grinned and winked at him. Surprise and delight crossed the Innkeeper's face and he reached out over the bar to take Myrna's hand, shaking it heartily as if they were again making introductions. "Harbinger..." he said with wonder, his grin spreading from ear to ear. "What a pleasure it is to have the two such as yourselves staying in my little inn. Now, tell me to mind my own business, but for what reason are _Companions _making the pilgrimage to High Hrothgar?"

"Mind your own business, Wilhelm," Myrna replied, smiling and without spite.

"Fair enough," he laughed, returning his attentions to cleaning the flagons behind the bar.

Vilkas smirked into his cup. Myrna had a way with people – a talent he did not possess himself. He doubted he would have been able to deflect the Innkeeper's prying question without causing some hurt feelings, yet she had managed it, direct to the point of bluntness and still the man was smiling. He supposed having a pretty face helped in these matters. Since discovering the platonic nature of their relationship he noted Wilhelm was making appraising glances in Myrna's direction, and even more since she revealed she was the Harbinger. For her part Myrna appeared oblivious, or was at least feigning such. Vilkas fixed the landlord with a steady stare, trying to convey through narrowed eyes that making any advances on his shield-sister would be a very bad idea.

"So about the monastery," Myrna began, placing both hands upon the bar in a businesslike manner. "What can you tell us Wilhelm? What can we expect from the Seven-thousand Steps?"

Wilhelm set his cloth down. "Snow, ice – and lots of it. The climb can be treacherous, but it doesn't seem to stop pilgrims making the climb. We had a quite a few of them pass through the village some months ago when the Greybeards Shouted for the Dragonborn. Near shook Ivarstead to the ground when that happened... I figure people were hoping to catch a glimpse of the Dragonborn when they arrived. So far they've been disappointed. I don't put much stock in the legends myself, but if they bring trade through my inn then so much the better. As long as no dragons arrive in Ivarstead; that is something I would not wish to see."

Myrna nodded, keeping her face carefully neutral. She could not believe people had actually travelled to this tired little hamlet in the hopes of seeing the likes of her, and felt a numbing stab of guilt that she had not answered the Greybeard's call sooner. She turned to meet Vilkas' eye, finding his expression helpfully unreadable. No doubt he was eager to make a start on their climb, if it was destined to be as difficult as Wilhelm seemed to think.

"I think we've taken advantage of enough of your hospitality, barkeep," she said warmly, draining the last of her tea. "Let us settle up for the breakfast, and we'll be on our way."

"Not necessary," the man replied, "Call it a gift, for the honour of serving the Companions of Jorrvaskr." When Myrna went to argue, he continued. "I insist. Though if it would make you feel better, you can promise that you'll stop by for a drink when you return from the monastery."

"Deal," Myrna grinned, shaking the hand he offered. "Ready Vilkas?"

"Aye," the big Nord replied, pushing back his barstool. Myrna's suspicions had been correct, he was keen to get going. They had lingered here far too long, and he did not much fancy climbing the Throat of the World after nightfall. They gathered their weapons and packs from the room, refilled their waterskins and made for the door.

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><p>Despite the relatively sunny day they had enjoyed previously, the weather had apparently returned to form. The sky above was gloomy and grey, a drizzle of icy rain chilling the air. Myrna pulled her cloak tighter around herself as they set off towards the mountain path, the hallowed Seven-thousand Steps Nord pilgrims had been climbing for centuries. Only a few had ever been allowed inside High Hrothgar monastery, and even fewer had heard the Greybeards speak. Though part of her was apprehensive about meeting the Masters of the Voice, another part of her was excited. If they could teach her how to control her Shouts, or even teach her more Words of power, perhaps she might stand some sort of a chance against the next dragon she came across. The mere thought of coming face to face with one of the great beasts again still made her shudder, and she wondered how she would cope if she managed to absorb another dragon's soul. Mirmulnir was anything but happy about taking up residence within the soul of a mortal. Since she used his stolen Word his slithery voice had quieted, but sometimes she thought she could hear a whisper of him, Dovah words she had never heard before yet somehow understood. <em>Sil tafiir <em>he called her now. Soul thief.

It was an improvement on "little fool", at least.

Ivarstead was not much more impressive by day than it had been by night when they had passed through. For the most part it was a farming community, though it might have been more accurate to call it an ageing community. Without the benefit of aid from the younger generation, the majority of whom having left for greener pastures in the more prosperous towns and cities, Ivarstead's farmers were forced to toil upon the land well into what should be their retirement age. And this they were doing, tending their crops and animals despite the miserable weather, only turning from their work to watch as the two strangers passed them by.

Vilkas did not seem to mind the rain either, but then nothing about Skyrim's changeable climate seemed to phase the Nords that were born to her lands. He did not even wear a cloak over his armour, and by the time they reached the little bridge at the foot of the mountain his hair was soaked, jet black and plastered to his face and neck. Myrna was already irritated by the dripping from her hood, and thanked Talos that she had had the foresight to put on multiple layers of clothing beneath her armour. It wasn't much, just an extra shirt and some woollen footwraps but they might just stop her from freezing to death in the sleet and snow, the latter of which the mountain was liberally coated.

There was a man on the bridge as they approached, a large sack slung across his shoulder and a grim look on his face. He stared up at the cloud-covered mountain, rubbing his hand through his braided beard, deep in thought. He did not seem to notice Myrna and Vilkas until they were practically right behind him, at which he started and introduced himself as Klimmek, fisherman of Ivarstead and part-time courier of supplies to High Hrothgar.

Vilkas was most aggrieved when Myrna offered to carry the man's supplies to the Greybeards in his stead. The woman was too soft-hearted for her own good; the climb was going to be hard enough without adding extra weight to their burden and besides, Klimmek did not seem as old or feeble as he tried to insist. In fact he had been in the Vilemyr Inn the night before, near passing out drunk in one corner of the common room. In spite of his misgivings Vilkas took the sack of provisions from Myrna and swung it over his shoulder, ignoring her protestations that she was happy to carry it herself. He was not going to risk her adding to the bruises she already had, especially when it was his fault she had received some of them.

At first the climb seemed simple enough. Snowberry bushes and various other hardy highland plants bordered the path, their thorns and vile-tasting fruit proving little deterrent to the goats that made their homes here. Periodically they came upon stone tablets carved eons ago by the Nords of old, each telling a small portion of the legend of how Man had come to understand the glory of the Voice and the Words of the Dragon Tongue. Myrna studied the emblems closely, tracing her fingers on the intricate carvings as if they could somehow convey some sort of wisdom to her mind through the stone. It was a wonder they were so intact, unprotected as they were from the cold and the elements. Below the ancient writings she found a few trinkets; a mark of Talos, dried mountain flowers and gold coins cast with the faces of Septims from all ages. These things must have been left by the pilgrims that had come before them, both recently and in years gone by, either as offerings to the Gods or simply as evidence to others that they had reached this sacred place. Having a keen interest in history himself Vilkas was quite taken by the carvings, though he scoffed aloud when Myrna began placing her own 'offerings' of a Septim at every slab. Myrna didn't give a damn what he thought. She needed the Gods on her side.

They had been walking for quite a few hours before things began to get difficult. The rain turned to sleet then eventually snow, large white flakes coating the path and making it harder to see the safest places to step. Myrna and Vilkas opted to walk in single file for safety, close to the rock face as they had before. The Seven-thousand Steps were misleadingly named - it had been a considerable time since they had last encountered anything resembling a step of any kind, just an endless carpet of snow upon ice upon rock, winding a meandering path around the mountain. The only foliage to be seen at this altitude were a few withered roots, and no animals of any kind. Even the goats did not venture up this far, and the tributes upon the stone tablets became fewer and fewer the more they pressed on. Only those faithful to the point of foolishness made the climb to High Hrothgar – a point that became ever clearer with each precarious step they took.

The snow drifts were up to their knees when the first ice wraith attacked. The spirit slithered through the flurries of snowflakes like some ethereal fish; it might have escaped their notice altogether had it not been for its snake-like hissing. It snapped at Myrna just too late, its razor sharp fangs rending the air mere inches from her face. She countered with both axe and sword, striking the spirit hard and knocking it back. The silent snow fell heavily, making it difficult to see anything, but a flash of blue to her left betrayed the ice wraith's presence and she sliced at it again. It whipped around, attempting another bite at her outstretched arm. Myrna was too quick. With a roar she swung the axe in her left hand; the ebony carving a dark arc through the air as it decapitated the wraith cleanly in one stroke. The wraith disintegrated, its body falling to the ground as a shimmering powder that was soon lost amongst the snow itself. Only its teeth remained; a commodity an alchemist or trader would pay good money for. Myrna was far too cold as it was to root around in the snow for them, and Vilkas simply could not care less about alchemical reagents, so they left them where they had fallen.

Two more ice wraiths met similar fates further on. Vilkas was impressed by the way Myrna handled them, her blades making quick work of the venomous spirits before they could counter her with a bite. Ice wraith bites were an agony he had experienced himself, long ago when he was a nothing but a reckless whelp, and had left behind scars that he was not in the least bit proud of. He had gravely misjudged the wraith's delicate body for weakness, and it would have been to his ultimate cost if Farkas had not been there to slay the thing. For a Nord to be pacified by frost magic was shameful, and thankfully his brother had dutifully sworn to take his secret to the grave.

By the time the fourth ice wraith made an appearance Myrna was feeling rather irritated. She put the spirit down easily enough, as she had all the others, but hours of trudging through knee deep snow and being pelted in the face by a blizzard was certainly taking its toll on her mood - and on her health. She could not even feel her hands or feet any more, and her walking had become more stumble than footstep, slowing her to an almost crawling pace. She grabbed at her hood with numb, clumsy fingers, holding it against the freezing wind that bit and gnawed at the skin of her cheeks and nose. She would have gritted her teeth against it if only she could stop them from chattering. Under her breath she cursed High Hrothgar, cursed Skyrim, and cursed Vilkas for good measure. The Nord's pace had only slowed to accommodate hers; the vile mountain weather did not seem to adversely affect him in any way. Myrna turned her head to look at him, his large boots expanding her footprints to about twice the size as he plodded along in her wake, his sword and the sack over his shoulder. His expression was the same as it almost always was; dark and brooding, all without even a trace of a shiver whereas she could do nothing but. The cold had seeped into her bones, into the marrow - making her joints stiff and every movement ache as if she were an arthritic old woman. Another sharp gust of wind blew her hood down, feeling like a slap to her already sore cheeks. When she came upon another stone tablet that was thick with ice Myrna leaned heavily upon it without reading it, unsure if she could even summon the strength of body or spirit to continue onwards to the monastery.

The wind tore her hair from its knot, sending her braids flying as she stood motionless, letting the weather have its way with her while she flagged upon the stone. She started when warm hands raised her hood back over her head, and could only stare dumbly as Vilkas wrapped his spare blanket around her shoulders and beneath her cloak. He turned her around to face him, tucking her into it as if she were a small child, arranging her hood to better protect her blue lips from the wind's assaults. Frost had settled in his stubble giving him a beard of white, and as usual his eyes betrayed little of what he might be thinking. One side of his mouth turned up in what might have been half of a smile – either that or he was laughing at her. Myrna supposed it was probably the latter, though when he picked up Klimmek's sack again and placed his free arm around her she almost squeaked in surprise.

_Gods _how warm he was! Despite their hours of trekking on this Divines-forsaken path Vilkas was as warm as if he had been sitting before the fireside. With his arm around her shoulders he began walking, forcing Myrna to keep to his brisk pace – something she found much easier now that they were sharing their body heat... what little she had remaining to share with him, anyway. Not that he needed it.

Vilkas for his part remained stoic, determined to reach their destination before the storm became too violent to walk in at all. He marvelled at the recklessness of the Harbinger, that she would think to attempt this journey alone without informing anyone of where she was going was nothing short of idiocy. But then, Myrna could probably conquer the Throat of the World through sheer stubbornness alone, if she had to. Vilkas would make sure she did so without losing any appendages to frostbite, and when Myrna leaned into his shoulder he felt his stomach flip strangely. When she placed her own arm about his waist, Vilkas knew he was lost.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it :) Thank you all for your lovely reviews as always, every comment, follow or fav is appreciated. I'm almost done with college now so should hopefully mean more time for writing... fingers crossed!**

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><p>The monastery of High Hrothgar loomed above them, looking more like a military fort than a place of deep religious importance. Myrna and Vilkas ascended the steps with caution, for they were more ice than stone and slippery underfoot. They had walked the rest of the path together, side by side, Vilkas holding the Breton woman close to him to help her keep warm. With the Greybeard's stronghold in sight Myrna finally ducked out from under his arm to walk unaided, finding her own strength once again now that they had reached the end of their arduous journey. Vilkas followed as Myrna made her way to read the final two stone tablets. A likeness of Talos stood above one of the stones, and he watched as she withdrew her amulet from beneath her leather breastplate, clutching it in her palm while making a silent prayer. With his eyes upon the statue Vilkas made his own plea to the Divine, asking Him to see Myrna safely through whatever challenges she must face. Talos' stone eyes remained cold and impassive, and did nothing at all to ease his concerns.<p>

Twin staircases curved upwards leading to doors on either side of the ancient building, mighty dragons heads carved into the stone above each one. Myrna chose the right staircase, hesitating before the great wooden door before her with her amulet of Talos still in hand. A thousand thoughts rushed through her mind. What if the Greybeards refused to speak with her? What if they turned her away? What if she had taken so long to answer their call, they had decided they would not aid her? She did not have long to dither in uncertainty, for Vilkas was right behind her, the sack of food still hanging over his shoulder atop his greatsword. The delivery of provisions at least would get them inside, if the Greybeards would not speak to her after that then she would _make _them. After all, she was the Dragonborn... wasn't she?

Myrna gazed up at the carved dragon's head above, then to her shield-brother. Vilkas watched her expectantly, waiting for her to whatever it was she needed to do to get them through the massive oak door.

"Do I knock?" she asked, as if he would know. "Or do I... er, Shout?"

"Perhaps try knocking first," said Vilkas after a pause. Myrna had Shouted once more on the mountain, when they had been set upon by a frost troll that had been lurking amongst the drifts. Since the departure of the pilgrims the creature's prey had been scarce, and the troll was half-starved and crazed with hunger. Vilkas' heart had leapt to his throat when it attacked, catching them off guard as they battled through the storm. There was no way he was going to be able to draw his sword in time to protect them in time. Then Myrna used her Voice, the same Word she had used before – _Fus – _and suddenly the troll was flying, thrown off the side of the mountain in a manner that might have been quite comical were it not for the echoing of the Shout.

At first they thought the snowstorm had become even heavier. Then rocks began to tumble from above along with great piles of snow shifted by the avalanche, dragging more shale and stones with it as Myrna and Vilkas dashed to escape being hit. A boulder crashed down behind them and Vilkas skidded on the ice and fell, urging Myrna to keep going without him. Of course she would not, stubborn woman, so they had both ended up buried, trapped together under a heavy blanket of white. Mercifully nothing harder hit them, and with their bare hands they were soon able to dig themselves out unscathed. Despite laughing while she made them Myrna was full of apologies, and when she dusted the snow from his hair and his armour with her hands Vilkas could not help himself but forgive her at once.

With these events in mind, he was not in any hurry to find out what sort of damage Myrna's Shouting could do to a building, and when she opted instead to knock upon the ornate wooden door he was quite relieved.

Myrna knocked three times, then waited. For a few moments it seemed as if no one was coming to answer it, then the door gave a click and opened slightly. Myrna hesitated, peering through the crack in the door to see if there was anybody on the other side, seeing only the darkness of the empty hall within. She turned to Vilkas questioningly, his answering nod encouraging her to push the door open and lead them inside.

The hallway led almost immediately into a large chamber, lit with braziers and numerous candles stowed in niches and alcoves in the grey stone walls. The floor was made of the same grey stone, the ancient slabs cracked and worn by the passing of many centuries and the feet of those who had come here to study the Way of the Voice. It was by no means warm inside, in fact the air had a crisp coolness to it, but compared to the storm raging outside it was blissful. The two warriors stamped the snow off their boots, venturing further into the hall to take stock of their impressive surroundings.

Carvings and tapestries adorned the walls, each portraying a fragment of the rich history of Skyrim, murals depicting mighty heroes of legend and the dragons that were at first worshipped and later overthrown by the Nords they had enslaved. It was truly humbling to be in such a place, so much so that Myrna only realised she was holding her breath when her chest began to hurt. She breathed in as quietly as she could, loath to disturb the sanctified silence which filled the room.

They heard footsteps and turned to the stairs as four elderly men dressed in hooded robes began to descend into the hall, their bushy beards as grey as the stones that surrounded them. Feigning confidence, Myrna clasped her hands together behind her back and painted on a smile. As if he had picked up on her sudden nervousness Vilkas moved towards her, standing at her side but one respectful pace behind.

"So," began the first Greybeard, stopping ten feet from where the Companions stood. His fellows gathered around him, silent as the grave. "You answer our summons at last, Dragonborn."

With the monks staring at her, scrutinising her, Myrna felt her mouth go dry. A dozen excuses sprang to mind, none of which of any real merit. She swallowed, looking down at her feet as she admitted the truth that shamed her.

"My apologies, Master. I had never heard of the Dragonborn legend until the day you called me. I did not understand what was expected of me, and I was afraid."

"No matter," the speaker continued, folding his arms into his wide sleeves. "You come to us now, at this moment in the turning of the age. We heard and felt the strength of your Thu'um from the mountain and beyond, but let us taste of it in person. Shout at us, so that we may witness the power you possess."

Myrna swallowed again, turning to meet Vilkas' eye. The Nord said nothing, but took a few steps backwards, which she took as licence to comply with the monk's request. She took a deep breath and focused her mind, preparing for the awesome rush of the Thu'um to explode through her lips from her soul. A sudden thought struck her and she paused, her breath hitching and releasing as nothing but a natural exhalation.

The speaker seemed to sense her reluctance. He nodded to her, smiling slightly. "Shout at us, Dragonborn. We will not be harmed, for we are Masters of the Voice."

This time she did not hold back. Her Thu'um knocked the four monks backwards six feet apiece, but true to their word not one of them fell. Even the quiet ones were smiling now, though their lips remained firmly sealed together. They looked a little like bearded marionettes, their expressions so strained it was almost false. The effect was rather disconcerting.

"We are honoured to welcome you to High Hrothgar, Dragonborn," said the speaker. "I am Master Arngeir. I speak for the Greybeards. We will do our best to teach you how to use your gift in the fulfillment of your destiny."

"My destiny?" Hope filled Myrna's heart at that. "You mean you can help me? You know what it is I must do?"

"All in good time child, all in good time. But first I must ask, who is this that accompanies you here today?"

Before she could answer, Vilkas stepped forward to speak for himself. "I am Vilkas of the Companions, shield-brother to Myrna."

"Shield-brother to the Dragonborn," Arngeir repeated, in a tone Vilkas did not much like. "While I do not doubt your conviction, young man, this is a place of meditation and study. We have no need of shields here, nor swords for that matter. The Dragonborn has much to learn, and can afford no distractions."

"Distractions?" Vilkas repeated incredulously. "What? You mean to say I cannot stay here?"

"Surely Vilkas can wait here for me?" Myrna implored, glancing between the two men. "If he had not been by my side I would not have made it to the foot of the mountain, let alone your halls."

Arngeir stood firm, his smile gone. "Unfortunately not. You are here to learn the Way of the Voice – a discipline that requires perfect focus of your body and mind, heart and soul. Thu'um is dangerous to those who do not have the skill, as I am sure you have witnessed yourselves. This is why we open the doors of High Hrothgar only to those who are worthy."

"And I am not," Vilkas spat, glaring at the hooded monk furiously. "Fine. Then I will wait outside." He pulled Klimmek's sack from his shoulder, tossing it at Arngeir's feet. "Enjoy your food."

He stormed off towards the door, allowing it to slam shut behind him. Blinking, Myrna watched him go, stunned at the exchange that had just occurred.

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><p>Though the storm had settled a little the wind still whirled outside, sending a flurry of snowflakes careening straight into Vilkas' face as he marched out onto the top of the steps. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, taking what he hoped would be a deep, calming breath as he considered the rather impossible situation in which he had found himself. He had assisted Myrna in getting to the monastery in one piece (though it had been a close thing on a few occasions) but he had not thought about what he would do once she got there. Nord blood or no, he would surely freeze to death if he stayed out here in the elements for more than a few hours, yet he could not bring himself to even think about leaving her. Who knew what sort of crazy tasks those bearded fools would foist upon her? No one in Skyrim knew what it was the Greybeards did up here on their sacred mountain, save for Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak and perhaps the disgraced Jarl Barlgruuf – if he even still lived. Vilkas felt it safe to assume that the monks kept their secrets for a good reason.<p>

He was clenching his fists tightly, trying once more to cool his rising temper when the door opened once again. Myrna stepped out, closing the door gently behind herself, a look of concern for her shield-brother upon her lovely face. He noted his blanket was still pulled tight around her shoulders.

"Vilkas-"

Vilkas did not answer, merely glowering at her from beneath his dark eyebrows. He could guess what was coming.

"- I want to thank you for escorting me here, but..."

"Do not even _think_ of asking me to go back to Whiterun!" Vilkas growled, his lip curling. "After all that we have been through, I am not leaving you alone on this Gods-forsaken mountain with that bunch of hooded hermits!"

"Well what else are you going to do?!" Myrna shot back, her own anger bubbling to the surface. "Argneir tells me my training will take _days_, perhaps even longer than that. I can't walk away from here without learning how to use my Voice - not if I am to fight dragons! I wouldn't stand a chance as I am now, at least not without an army at my back as I had before. If the Greybeards can help me defeat the World-Eater, then I must stay here for as long as it takes. You cannot wait out here for me, not without shelter in this cold."

"I will find a way," he replied resolutely, turning away from her to regard the frigid landscape before him.

Myrna was fighting the intense urge to Shout the man into Oblivion despite her lack of training. "How?! By building an ice-house?! Shor's bones, Vilkas! Why must you be so fucking pig-headed?! You know as well as I that you cannot hope to survive the night." She took a step towards him on the ice, tugging the blanket around herself more firmly as the howling wind threatened to wrench it from her grasp. "Please, listen to me Vilkas. I know I cannot order you to do anything, but I am asking you as a friend. Do not wait for me here."

At her change of tone Vilkas felt his anger wane a little. He looked over his shoulder to see Myrna gazing at him intently with her dark eyes, chewing her bottom lip as her plea hung in the air between them. He had witnessed her power himself; there was no doubt in his mind that she was Dragonborn, a living _legend, _yet all he could see before him was his Harbinger - the beautiful warrior he would fight to his last breath to protect.

"I can't just leave you," he said, staring down at his boots. Emotion cracked his voice.

"Then don't," Myrna replied, turning him to face her with a hand upon his shoulder. "Wait for me at the Vilemyr Inn."

Vilkas considered for a long moment. "You would come down the mountain by yourself?"

A broad grin spread upon her face. She was finally getting through to him. "Compared to everything else I'm sure that's the least of my worries. Going downhill is bound to be easier than coming up, but I will be careful."

As much as he misliked the situation, Vilkas reasoned that under the circumstances neither of them had much of a choice. Myrna smiled up at him, a hopeful little smile, and while his own features softened slightly he could not bring himself to mirror her happy expression, and nor could he share her apparent optimism. He knew that he would fret for her safety for every minute they were separated, in spite of her assurances that she would be just fine without him. Did she even know how much he cared for her? The true extent of his regard for her? The way she dominated his thoughts both when he was awake and while he slept?

Vilkas decided it was about time he enlightened her.

With his eyes firmly on hers he inclined his head towards her, bending down to accommodate for the significant difference in their heights. Myrna's smile wavered slightly, wondering what he was about. Before she could open her mouth to ask, he lightly touched his lips to hers, his heart hammering in his chest in reaction to his own boldness. While Myrna did not precisely respond, she certainly did not push him away either, and Vilkas took this as his permission to continue. He brought his right hand to cup her face, tracing his fingertips along the length of her jaw as he moved his lips, kissing her again with a gentle firmness that she could not mistake for chaste. Her lips upon his were soft and sweet, just as he had always imagined they would be, and her wonderful scent ensnared his senses, extracting all other thought from his mind. When he finally made himself break away from them he rested his forehead upon hers, their noses almost touching.

"I will wait seven days," he said softly, his eyes still closed. He did not dare to look upon her face, lest he see rejection or revulsion there. "After that I will return here for you."

Unsure if she had dreamed what had just happened, all Myrna could do was nod slowly, searching Vilkas' face for an answer to the myriad of questions that had sprung to her mind. Of course she found none there. He would not even meet her eye. Instead Vilkas merely nodded himself, and turned on his heel to begin his long descent upon the mountain path without another word or even a backwards glance. Myrna stared after him for a long time, even after he rounded the corner out of sight, trying her hardest to fathom the events that had just occurred as the freezing wind whistled around her. It was too cold to linger, and so she headed back inside the monastery - her thoughts even more of a mess now than they had been when she arrived.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: Intermission! Not really, but I haven't forgotten about our friend Ulfric Stormcloak. It's good to be the King, oh yes ;)**

**Thanks as usual for your wonderful reviews, follows, favs. Mara's blessings to you all for sticking with me, this is turning into a much longer journey than I ever expected and I hope you guys are having as much fun as I am xx**

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><p>Ulfric Stormcloak was restless. Perhaps more restless than he had a right to be, considering the day's events. Against his better judgement he had been cajoled into enduring a whole day of feasting in his honour, interspersed with more toasts to his health than he could keep count of, all at the behest of his steward, Jorleif. While the man's knowledge of military strategy was at best mediocre, politics and negotiation were something Jorleif excelled at. Within days of Ulfric's return from war to his seat at Windhelm, his old friend had gathered a fine collection of the most notable figures in the country, inviting them to the palace to swear fealty to the man who was soon to be their High King.<p>

There had been some surprising faces amongst the nobles that answered the summons. Ulfric recognised Svafar Ironshield as soon as the man passed through the gates of the Palace of Kings, but then at some six feet and five inches the man was hard to miss. They had served alongside each other in the Great War, and had once been the firmest of friends, until Svafar decided the Emperor's gold was worth more to him than the liberation of Skyrim. Ulfric had half a mind to order his execution before the feasting even began, but Jorleif implored him to stay his hand, to see what the man had to say before making any rash decisions that could not be undone.

Ulfric's war against the Empire had left Ironshield a broken man. His many farms in the hold of Falkreath had once supplied the Imperial army itself, bringing in vast quantities of gold, even trading across the border with Cyrodiil. When the Stormcloaks took Fort Neugrad, and ultimately Falkreath hold in its entirety, Ironshield's farms were henceforth sacked and taken from him; their wares used to supply the rebel army to their great advantage. With his livelihood in ruins and Stormcloak patrols ensuring escape from Skyrim was impossible, Svafar was left with only one commodity to barter: his name. The Ironshield line was richly steeped in Skyrim's history, and despite their recent Imperial leanings, Ulfric knew the name would still carry weight with the rabble. With his former comrade grovelling at his feet and pledging support to his claim on the High King's throne, Ulfric could barely contain his pleasure at seeing the once great man brought down so low. He grudgingly accepted Ironshield's allegiance, on the understanding that if he caught even a sniff of a rebellion from his direction hereafter Svafar and the entire Ironshield clan would be hanged from the palace ramparts promptly and without ceremony.

For all his years Ulfric had spent precious little time feasting with nobles, despite being a member of the upper classes himself. His had always been a militaristic lifestyle, and he felt more at home in the company of soldiers than those of his own elevated social standing. A common soldier was not likely to criticise the meat or mead he was served - in fact he would be grateful to receive anything that wasn't rations or gruel, and he would be far more likely to be impressed by any speech simply by its containing words of more than two syllables. A noble was a much harder man to court if you had no threat to hold over him, and expected far more from his host than a serf would. Ulfric needed the support of all the noble houses of Skyrim, so that when the Moot finally gathered he could be entirely sure of the outcome. He could not let any old grudges come to the surface now; not when the crown was so close to being his.

It was said that more flies could be caught with honey than vinegar. With this in mind Jorleif took great pains to ensure the mead was flowing steadily all evening, greasing the wheel of politics by plying the guests with drink. It was that much easier to curry favour with a man who was in his cups, and Ulfric took full advantage of the situation, sending extra flagons to the tables of those he had butted heads with in the past – of which there were many and more. By the end of the evening nearly all of the landed gentry were as drunk as the patrons of Candlehearth Hall, and even those who had previously claimed to be neutral to his cause raised their mugs to Ulfric Stormcloak, toasting him as their future High King. All in all the night could be considered a roaring success, though Ulfric was thoroughly exhausted from the very effort of holding his tongue and his temper while being surrounded by toadies and milk-drinkers for hours on end. Any other man of his age would probably be abed and snoring by now. When he did finally make it to his bed, however, he had not gone to it with the intent of sleeping.

Adirika Soraldsen was known throughout Skyrim to be a very desirable woman. It was said that the bards dedicated songs to her elegance and beauty, though if it was true it was likely because Adirika paid them to do so herself. In fact, Lady Soraldsen could probably buy and sell half of the people she shared a table with, if she had a mind. It could not be denied that she was comely, with long blonde hair, full pink lips and legs that seemed to go on forever beneath her elegant gown. She was the very image of the perfect Nord woman, aside from her aversion to combat – though the personal army she kept to defend her home and lands in the Rift more than made up for this small failing. What was more, she was wealthy enough that she could afford to be picky about her choice of husband, and thus she remained contentedly single despite the countless requests she had received over the years for her hand.

This evening the lady had dressed in a gown of Stormcloak blue, which complemented her golden hair and her ample figure almost perfectly. An amulet of Mara nestled in the cleft of her full bosom, an almost brazen reminder of her status as a single woman looking to attract a worthy husband. As such it only seemed to inspire false hope in the men seated around her. They each strived to attract the Lady's attention, showering her with superfluous compliments and attempting to impress her with stories and fanciful boasting of their various accomplishments. For her part Adirika showed polite interest, as a lady of her breeding should, laughing where appropriate and accepting one or two of the drinks that were poured for her. As the night wore on it became ever more apparent that Lady Soraldsen only had eyes for one man.

At first Ulfric had been taken aback by her seating herself next to him, for he had been expecting his old friend Thongvar to return to the bench. The newly appointed Jarl of Markath had been in the middle of reminiscing about what was now referred to as the 'Markath Incident' and the events that led to the birth of the Stormcloak rebellion when he had been struck by a sudden and urgent need to relieve himself; unsurprising given the four cups of mead he had consumed in the telling of the tale so far. Adirika's face was far more pleasing to the eye than Thongvar's, and when the woman began filling his cup for him and sliding her fingers up his thigh Ulfric was left with no doubt as to her true intentions. It seemed Adirika Soraldsen fancied her chances at becoming High Queen of Skyrim, and if she was prepared to warm his bed before securing the title then more fool was she. They talked and drank together, waiting until their fellow feasters had begun to leave the hall before slipping away to Ulfric's own chambers.

Stripped of her finery and silks Adirika cut much less remarkable figure. The boning of her bodice had greatly exaggerated her curves, which in the flesh were sadly lacking, but still impressive for a woman of her years. Ulfric cared little, it had been quite some time since he had sported with a woman between his sheets and he was determined to enjoy himself; to forget about Skyrim's troubles and lose himself in pleasure for an hour or two. Of course he made sure to sheath himself for the occasion – he was not stupid enough to sire a bastard on the woman and give any leverage to her obvious designs on the throne.

Adirika responded to his murmured instructions well, moved in unison with him, obligingly soft and warm and wet to his touch. Her amulet of Mara bounced between her modest breasts, dancing tauntingly in front of his eyes as Ulfric thrust himself into her again and again. If he was going to disappoint the Lady's ambitions to become his wife, he could at least see to it that he did not disappoint her in matters of the bedchamber. He seized her ankles, throwing her legs over his shoulders and adjusting the angle, his cock seeking and finding that secret place within her that drove all women to the brink and beyond. Her moaning changed at once; from practised, conventional sighs to wails of ecstasy that filled the room in a manner most unbecoming for a woman of such good stock. He had not granted her permission to use his first name, so when she came her repeated cries of "My King! My King!" sounded more comical to his ears than arousing, and on the whole rather off-putting. Adirika Soraldsen was really trying hard to make an impression on him, though the impression she left him with was probably not quite what she had in mind. Ulfric closed his eyes tightly, and when he finally came to his own shuddering climax the woman he was thinking about was certainly not the one writhing beneath him.

Ulfric supposed he must have slept for a few hours after that, as the sun was beginning to rise and sounds of merrymaking could no longer be heard from the hall below. He removed Adirika's arm from about his waist and sat up, reaching for his undershirt and breeches and pulling them on together with his boots. He glanced the woman in his bed, lying sprawled and naked under the tangled coverlet; her once elegantly coiffed golden hair spread over his pillows and half of her face as she snored gently. Tumbling her had been pleasant, but that was the best he found he could say for it. There had been something missing from their coupling – no _challenge_, nothing of a spark between them, and while he felt more relaxed for relieving his male urges Ulfric still did not feel altogether satisfied.

He left Adirika to her slumber and made for the door, giving instructions to the servant outside that he was to rouse her and see her to a carriage if she did not vacate his chamber before the Temple bells rang for morning prayer. It would not do to have her lingering around the palace, or to give any credence as to his intentions towards her. He recalled that the Lady had sworn her allegiance to him well before he had taken her to bed, and that she had done so in front of many witnesses. She could not renege on her vow without becoming a social pariah, no matter how vexed she might be with his… ungallant treatment of her. Ulfric smirked at that - perhaps he might be better at these tiresome political games than he had first believed.

He headed down the staircase with no particular destination in mind, looking for something to occupy himself with before he joined the congregation at the Temple. Windhelm's Temple had always been open for the free worship of Talos, in clear contradiction of the terms of the White-Gold Concordat. This had always been a matter of pride to Ulfric, that even in his absence the people of his city had kept their faith and defied the Empire's blasphemous demands to abandon the God they held dear. He made a point of attending the Temple whenever he found the time, and seating himself amongst the commoners was almost worth it for the praise and adoration they heaped upon him as their beloved Jarl.

Finding no new missives upon his desk in his study to distract himself with, Ulfric made his way down to the main hall in search of something to appease his growling stomach. It was still early, but he had many servants, he was sure one of them could present him with something palatable for breakfast even if the cookfires were not yet prepared. As he walked through the hall he saw a light shining through the crack of the war-room door, and when he opened it he was not at all surprised at who he found on the other side.

"Galmar my friend," he grinned, clapping the man on the shoulder heartily. "Poring over your maps and plans even at this ungodly hour. It's good to see some things do not change."

The Stormcloak general grinned back through his bushy beard. "Aye, old habits die hard, as they say. The war may be won, but there are still Imperial camps out there in the wilderness. My platoons are rooting them out as we speak, sending them slithering out from beneath their stones. We cannot all of us spend our evenings feasting and rubbing shoulders with the milksops and bootlickers."

Ulfric would allow no other man to speak to him as Galmar Stone-Fist had. They had a friendship spanning many decades, and with such came a certain amount of camaraderie. "You were missed last night Galmar," he said, helping himself to the bread and cheese his old friend had left upon the table. "Believe me I like spending time with the nobles just as little as you do, mayhaps even less, but I do what I must to ensure Skyrim's future. You should have joined us - I would have very much enjoyed some intelligent company."

"I'd rather fight a giant in my smallclothes," Galmar scoffed, bending to examine the map once more. "Though by all accounts you were not lacking for a _certain_ type of company, if what I hear is true. How is Lady Soraldsen, by the way?"

"Tired," Ulfric replied dryly, and the two men shared a laugh, their deep voices echoing out into the empty main hall. When the laughter had subsided, Ulfric continued more seriously, "I think she had ideas about marriage."

"Heh. What it must be to be so eligible," Galmar mused, "I never had you down as the marrying sort, myself."

"The Moot will demand it," Ulfric replied between mouthfuls of bread. "When they name me High King I will need to produce an heir to carry on my line and protect my claim, so I must marry. To tell you true it is another headache I could do without. I should be building armies, preparing for battle against the Thalmor - not courting slack-witted highborn wenches."

Galmar poured the Jarl a cup of water from a pitcher, and one for himself. "You could do worse than Adirika Soraldsen, I'd wager." He noted his friend's sour expression and chuckled. "But our tastes are very different. I seem to recall you favour a more _outdoor_ sort of woman, a woman who knows the battlefield as well as you or I. Perhaps a certain woman who answers to the name of Stormblade...?"

Ulfric stopped drinking and stared hard at Galmar, and for a moment the general thought he might have overstepped himself. To his immense relief, after long seconds of silence a slow smile spread across Ulfric's face and soon they were both laughing again. Ulfric could hardly try to persuade Galmar that the nature of his relationship with the woman he spoke of was anything less than he had implied. Especially not since Galmar himself had walked in on the two of them in his study, when Ulfric had the Breton woman draped across his lap, enjoying the sound of her gentle sighs as he kissed a trail from her neck and down her bare shoulder. Myrna had started at the general's sudden intrusion, and scrambled to pull her tunic back down to cover herself – a futile effort in that Ulfric still very obviously had his hand beneath it. Ulfric trusted that Galmar would not let the indiscretion go any further; after all the man was not only a general in his army, but also his housecarl - sworn to protect his secrets as well as his life.

"I don't suppose there's been any word..." Ulfric began, turning to look over the map on the table.

"Of Stormblade?" Galmar finished, folding his arms. "Not as yet."

The Jarl frowned at that, running a hand through his blond beard thoughtfully. He _had _released Myrna from his service after the battle for Solitude, but he had assumed she would remain in the city, at least until he departed for Windhelm. It had never for a second crossed his mind that she would leave without a word and go to ground somewhere. Even after all the nights they had spent in each other's company, he could not fathom what could be going through the woman's head.

"She cannot hide herself away forever," he said, still staring grimly at the map. "She is the Dragonborn, after all."

There was a pause while Galmar considered how to broach the subject that was troubling him without causing offence. "With all due respect Jarl Ulfric, what makes you so sure Myrna _is _the Dragonborn? She is a formidable soldier, sure, yet none have ever witnessed her Thu'um. Not once did she Shout in all the time she served in the army."

Ulfric frowned. He had been expecting that question, sooner or later. He silently cursed Myrna for her reluctance to use her Voice. Cowardice that had roots in the elf side of her manmeri heritage, he was certain. "I just know," Ulfric replied testily. "Do not doubt me, Galmar. The Thu'um is within her; I would know it even if she had not admitted it to me herself. I do not think it is mere coincidence that the dragons returned to our lands so soon after she crossed the border. I was at Helgen when the great black dragon came, and I have read enough history in my time to know Alduin the World-Eater when he burns down a village before my eyes. You and I both know what his return means for the future of Skyrim, and for all of Nirn. The creature spoke, called the name of _Dovahkiin_, challenging her to fight even as her head lay upon the block. There can be no mistake; Myrna is the Dragonborn. The business with the dragon at Whiterun confirmed it… even Barlgruuf would swear the same."

"That the Hero of the Nords should be a Breton," Galmar mused, shaking his head. "The Divines have a sense of humour, I will give them that."

"Hm," murmured the Jarl by way of agreement. It had been a thing he had thought himself on more than one occasion, yet Myrna had proved herself a true daughter of Skyrim time and time again despite her inferior bloodline. He wondered if perhaps she had answered the Greybeards' call at long last - if she had finally faced up to her responsibilities now that the war was over. For Skyrim's sake, Ulfric hoped that was the case. Their victory would be a hollow one if they lost everything to the World-Eater now.

Wherever the Dragonborn might be, whatever she was up to, there was one thing Ulfric Stormcloak knew for certain. They had unfinished business between them, and if Myrna thought she could hide from him in his own country then she was dead wrong.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: As always thank you everyone for your kind reviews, follows and favs :) I'm starting to struggle a bit with writer's block at the moment, but I'm going to keep pressing on as much as I can... for now please enjoy! xx**

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><p>Myrna smashed into the gate face first, shaking the timber posts with the force of the collision. With a groan of pain she staggered backwards, holding both hands to her battered face, venting her frustration by screaming obscenities to the heavens. If the Divines could hear her cursing their names Myrna did not much care. She had been at this for hours, and still she could not get it right. It was too much, and now she was done.<p>

She crouched down on the cold stone of the Greybeards' courtyard, holding her throbbing head in her hands, not feeling at all like a legendary hero at that moment. Had they all struggled like this, the Dragonborns of old? Were they all forced to launch themselves headlong through gates at speeds no mortal being should be able to travel? Was this truly what training in the Way of the Voice entailed? Or was this some variety of sadistic torture, dreamed up by a group of crackpot, bearded old fools who had been breathing this too-thin air for far longer than was healthy? With blood seeping freely from cuts to her forehead and split lips, Myrna was inclined to believe it was the latter.

When she could at last see through the stars that danced before her eyes, Myrna looked up to meet the cool gaze of Master Borri, the man in charge of the mechanical timer on the gate and thus the man responsible for her injuries. She spat a mouthful of blood into the snow, glaring at the old man with as much venom as she could muster. If he was aware of her feelings towards him at that moment, then Borri did not show it. In fact his bearded face conveyed no emotion whatsoever; he simply stared back at her as he always did, silent and impassive. This only served to aggravate Myrna further. Not wanting to look at the man for a second longer she allowed herself to fall backwards, lying spread upon the ground heedless of the cold, muttering another string of swear words to the rapidly darkening clouds above.

"You are not concentrating, Dragonborn."

Myrna's eyes snapped open again at Master Arngeir's words. Of all the Greybeards, he had been the only one to speak to her in the Common tongue. Aside from when they had granted her their understanding of the Words of Power she had learned from them, Arngeir's had been the only voice she had heard for days. She had long since given up trying to speak to the others, having received nothing for her efforts at conversation than emotionless stares or even worse, being ignored completely. It was always Arngeir giving her the lessons, droning on about the history of the Dragonborns over and over until she knew their stories almost as well as she knew her own.

"I am concentrating," she spat back, a trickle of blood running down her chin from her mouth. "As much as I can with a concussion, anyway."

"But you are angry," Arngeir replied, walking across the yard to where she lay. Snow had begun to fall now, feathery flakes landing upon her face and upon her eyelashes, forcing her to blink away the water from her eyes as they melted on her skin. Still Myrna managed to keep her scowl firmly upon her lips, even as the elder Greybeard looked down upon her with a smile barely visible beneath his knotted beard. Too right she was angry, not to mention hungry, bored, cold and utterly sick to death of High Hrothgar and its inhabitants. Arngeir offered her a hand, and after a moment of hesitation she took it, allowing him to pull her to her feet. Myrna wiped the blood from her mouth with the sleeve of her borrowed robe. Even her armour had been taken from her by the monks, apparently it was vital that she live exactly as they did; forgoing material possessions and embracing their simple way of life. As far as Myrna was concerned depriving her of the equipment she had come to depend on was simply another method of torment. Without her weapons she felt something like a de-clawed sabrecat, her blades were as much a part of her as her heart and her soul.

"Your emotions are holding you back," said Arngeir, folding his arms into his sleeves. Myrna avoided his eye, her teeth clenched tightly together, yet the Master continued. "You must let go of whatever is troubling you, put your faith in the power of your Voice. It is all there within you, Dragonborn. The only obstacles you have to traverse are the ones you have built yourself."

Myrna cast a sidelong glance at the man beneath her furrowed and still bleeding brow. Unsurprisingly she found precious little comfort in the knowledge that her failings were brought upon herself. The worst part was, she knew Arngeir was right. Over the past few days she had learned no less than three new Words of Power, learned how to focus her "Unrelenting Force" Shout to strike targets accurately, learned the "Whirlwind Sprint" Shout that would allow her to move fast enough to make it past the timed gate without smashing straight through it. With everything she had been through so far it was no wonder she was exhausted, no wonder she was allowing her fear of failure to impact on her performance. If she did not learn how to use her Voice to its full potential she would stand no chance against Alduin when they met in battle. The World-Eater would show her no mercy – a fact Mirmulnir delighted in reminding her, his dark voice whispering to her throughout her fevered dreams. Her weakness had emboldened him of late, he lurked within the shadows of her mind, his words adding weight to her feelings of worthlessness at any given opportunity.

Finally sensing her distress, Arngeir placed a hand upon her shoulder and smiled. "Perhaps that is enough for today. Return to your quarters, clean yourself up, and join us in the hall for dinner. We will continue with your training tomorrow."

The snow was coming thick and fast now, and the other Greybeards had already begun to make their way back into the monastery to shelter from the storm that was threatening. Wiping her mouth on her sleeve again, Myrna nodded once to Arngeir, and with one last baleful look at the gate she allowed herself to be steered across the courtyard and up the steps to the door.

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><p>Dinner was a sombre affair, as were all activities within High Hrothgar. The four Greybeards and Myrna sat at one end of a long stone table, large enough to seat at least another twenty diners comfortably. Myrna supposed that in times past the monastery had been inhabited by a great deal more students of the Voice, back when making the pilgrimage was revered as sacred a rite of passage, a far cry from the fanciful fool's errand it had since become. It was hardly surprising that only a mere handful of Nords had climbed the mountain in recent years, nor that even fewer had stayed to train with the Greybeards. Theirs was a manner of living that only the truly devout or truly masochistic would choose to adopt.<p>

As they ate in stoic silence Myrna began to feel incredibly homesick for Jorrvaskr. She missed the laughter and chatter of her Shield-siblings around her, the boasting and the teasing and the slamming of flagons upon the wooden table. The dining hall of High Hrothgar had none of Jorrvaskr's warmth despite the roaring fire in the hearth, and the food was in a word abysmal. Myrna had not assumed that the Greybeards enjoyed a very varied diet owing to the remoteness of their location, but she had not expected that the rations they provided her with would make her long for Tilma's haphazard cooking quite so much as it did. At dawn their breakfast was a thick sort of gruel with the consistency of lumpy paste, and their evening meal was always dried fish accompanied by a variety of tasteless white bean. These two were the only meals she received during the day; according to the Greybeards this fasting aided in their meditations. All it did for Myrna was cause her stomach to growl in hunger, challenging her ability to focus on anything at all let alone "balancing her mind" or whatever it was Arngeir kept repeating to her. It was one of the many things that contributed to her increasingly sour mood.

Myrna did not even notice that the Masters Borri, Wulfgar and Einarth had finished their meals and left the table. This was hardly surprising, given the fact that the monks were so silent she barely noticed them at all as the days went on, even once walking into Einarth as he sat still as a statue in some gloomy corner of the monastery. Myrna had blustered rapid apologies, feeling like an oaf and totally convinced she had committed some heinous sin by interrupting the Master's ruminations. Einarth had simply stared forwards as if she had not touched him, not speaking or even seeing her when she leaned down to try and meet his eye. It was then Myrna decided the monks were either insane, or that their spiritual understanding of the Way of the Voice was one she could never hope to achieve. So much the better, she thought, if it made her act anything like as strangely as the Greybeards did.

She was pushing a piece of greyish, bony fish around her plate when she finally noticed Arngeir was watching her, his eyes glinting in the torchlight beneath his heavy woollen hood. Instantly Myrna straightened up, shovelling the last morsels of food into her mouth and swallowing it down hard, almost choking on a fish bone until she dislodged it with an urgent gulp of water. Myrna's coughs echoed through the hall, breaking the heavy silence as she felt her cheeks flush with shame. She could not even eat without disgracing herself, it seemed.

Arngeir's expression never wavered. Instead he folded his arms into his wide sleeves and waited for her to compose herself.

"You are troubled," he said simply. It was not an accusation, merely a statement, but Myrna felt the prickle of irritation all the same. She had healed the wounds upon her face as well as she was able; despite not using magic in combat she could cast a simple restoration spell to heal minor flesh injuries when necessary. Bruises were different, and she could do nothing for the eye she had blackened when her face had met the iron of the gate. With Arngeir's eyes still upon her Myrna turned her gaze to her now empty plate, biting her tongue to prevent herself from articulating just how _troubled _she felt at that moment.

Arngeir watched her for a moment more, then rose from his seat. Crossing the room, he approached a small cupboard and unlatched it, reaching inside to withdraw a bottle of dull green glass. He returned to the table and placed the bottle before Myrna, waiting for her response. Unable to repress her curiosity she looked up, her eyes widening slightly when she realised what he had presented her with.

"But… this is…"

"Wine, yes," Arngeir supplied, sounding faintly amused at her astonishment.

Myrna looked up at him now, the hood of her robe falling to her shoulders with the movement. "I didn't think you…"

"Not usually. But I think we can make an exception for you, Dragonborn. You have had a trying few days." The old Nord smiled at her, a strange sort of smile that suggested fondness without condescension. He uncorked the bottle and filled Myrna's goblet generously, then seated himself next to her and filled a cup for himself. The wine was rich and sweet, and as the spices warmed her insides Myrna could not help but smile slightly herself. She could not fault the Greybeards on their taste in wine, at least.

"Ah, most pleasant," said Arngeir, swirling the crimson liquid gently in the bronze goblet. "I am sure the Divines will not begrudge us a little indulgence, it is their work we do after all." He turned again to Myrna, who wished she still had her hood up to shield her from his scrutiny. The monk smiled again and added a little more wine to her cup. "Do you believe you are the only one to have struggled to understand the Way, Myrna? That is not so. In the space of five days you have accomplished more than any student of High Hrothgar has in the past two centuries. You should be proud of what you have achieved thus far."

Myrna sighed heavily, running her hands through her matted and unbound hair. "But I am the Dragonborn," she replied morosely. "Surely I should be able to do more than I can. I can hear the words you taught me clearly in my mind, I can _see _them, but when I try to use them I lose all control." She dabbed at her swollen eye and winced, as if to prove her point.

"True understanding will come in time, and practice," Arngeir assured. "Dovahkiin you are indeed, but that in itself places a burden upon you, upon your soul." He paused and took another sip of wine before speaking again. "The dragon of Whiterun, the one you killed – do you hear it speak to you?"

Myrna blinked at him in surprise. "Sometimes."

"And what does it say?"

"Nothing good," she snorted. "He calls himself Mirmulnir."

"Aha, one of the missing ones," Arngeir nodded, as if Myrna should know what he meant. "His death was never recorded in our archives; it has long been assumed he went into hiding, awaiting his Master's return. It must anger him greatly, his soul being forced into union with your own, but you must not heed his words. He will use whatever he can to make you doubt yourself, to make you weak. Do not let him. Your Thu'um is far stronger than his, and he will hate you for it."

Myrna frowned but nodded anyway. Somehow that information did not make her feel much better about her situation.

"Every Dragonborn in history has struggled with this aspect of themselves," the monk continued, "Your soul with strengthen as your knowledge of the Voice develops. It is not a thing that can be hurried. Meditation and study are the key to your enlightenment." When Myrna drained her cup he took it from her, and to her dismay placed the cork back in the bottle. "You will find these things come easier when one's mind is rested. Return to your quarters now, Myrna. We will continue your training at dawn."

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><p>For once sleep came to Myrna with ease, sheer exhaustion winning out over the discomfort and back ache caused by her bed. The cots at High Hrothgar made the rickety beds at the Vilemyr Inn seem like luxury in comparison; Myrna slept upon what was essentially a stone slab, a rolled up sack serving as her pillow and only the thinnest of wool blankets to cover herself with. No dreams disturbed her slumber, perhaps due in part to the wine, and she only awoke when the sounds of the raging storm outside grew loud enough to drag her unwillingly back to consciousness.<p>

The small fire in the room had died, which was hardly surprising. It had been a feeble thing at best, and the wind howling down through the chimney had finished it off completely. It sat smoking in the tiny hearth, hissing every time a drip of water from the melted snow trickled down the flue to fall upon the still-warm logs. Dawn was yet a few hours off, the oil lamp upon the mantle giving off the only light in the otherwise pitch dark room. Myrna left her bed to retrieve it, walking quickly over the freezing slabs to the residual heat the fire had left behind. If she had not been so sure that it would end in disaster Myrna might have considered using a flame spell to force the fire back to life. While she possessed a modest skill for restoration magic, her aptitude for destruction spells was poor to the point of dangerousness and she doubted the Gods would look favourably upon her if she were to destroy the monastery in conjured flames. Instead she decided to err on the side of caution, replacing the damp logs with new ones from the pile and striking flint with a small knife set out for the purpose, aiming to light the dry tinder she had arranged before it too became wet from the dripping above. A few times a spark ignited and fizzled out, and by the time she had the fire going again Myrna was shivering with cold.

She hugged her grey robes tightly around herself as she waited for the flames to warm her, lamenting once again that her armour lay useless in a chest somewhere under lock and key. Myrna wondered how exactly being _comfortable _was hindering her studies, and how High Hrothgar's previous scholars had fared under the strict regimen the Greybeards imposed upon their charges. When they had been on speaking terms Jarl Barlgruuf had never precisely explained why he had not studied the Way of the Voice when he made his pilgrimage, and Myrna found it difficult to imagine Ulfric Stormcloak swapping his finery for a drab, itchy wool robe without complaint. She had asked Arngeir about Ulfric once, in what she supposed was a moment of masochistic curiosity, hoping to hear about the man he had been before he started leading his rebellion. What she had not expected was that the very mention of the Jarl would startle the master out of his usual quiet composure and into something of a temper. From what she had gleaned from his ensuing angry ranting, the name of Ulfric Stormcloak was nothing more than a curse among the Greybeards. Whatever his reasoning might have been, in their opinion Ulfric had used the power of the Voice in violence to achieve his own selfish ends – a sin he was sure to answer for when his soul departed for Sovngarde. Even if Arngeir had not expressly told her so Myrna had known the subject was closed to her, and she was not fool enough to press the matter further, though thoughts of the Jarl still crossed her mind unbidden despite all her efforts to hold them at bay. The more she tried to forget the man, as he had surely forgotten her by now, her traitorous heart would cling to the memories all the tighter. Knowing this room had once been his; that he had studied from the same books, been warmed by the same little fire and slept in the same bed as she did nothing to help matters.

Sighing deeply Myrna rose to her feet and began pacing, hoping the movement would serve to dispel her melancholy thoughts and return some feeling to her legs, which now had pins and needles from being crouched on the floor. She was on her second turn of the room when she spotted something that stopped her in her tracks, forcing another issue she had pushed to the back of her mind to come springing back to the surface like a thunderbolt. Crumpled in the corner to the left of a door was another blanket, one she had quite forgotten about until now, the sight of it stirring thoughts of another man Myrna wished to avoid thinking about. It was the blanket that belonged to Vilkas.

Myrna had tried every way she could think of to rationalise it, but she could come up with no explanation for his strange behaviour when he left her on the mountain. Vilkas had _kissed_ her. Vilkas, the same bad-tempered, taciturn warrior that had sneered at her when she had first joined the ranks of the Companions, had planted a gentle kiss upon her lips and all she had been able to do was stand there, agape and at a loss for a proper reaction. Every night she had turned the scenario over in her head, trying to think of what she might have said or done to warrant such affection, trying her hardest to find some meaning in his actions or his words. They had grown closer in recent weeks, even more so since he began accompanying her on her journey to the mountain, but there had been nothing in his behaviour to suggest that his feelings for her ran any deeper than that of a Companion for his Shield-sister. Myrna picked up the blanket from the floor and crossed the room to her bed where she sat down heavily, balling her fists into the woollen cloth in utter frustration. Why could the men in her life not ever make their intentions towards her plain?

When Ulfric kissed her it was with unbridled desire, _passion; _Myrna had once lived for the way he would seize her tightly in his arms and take possession of her through the meeting of their lips. Just the thought of his wicked tongue made her shiver, every meeting of their lips had her craving more, and every time she had tried to end their affair it only took one kiss from him to make her forget herself again. Vilkas' kiss had been softer, gentle, not much more than the merest brushing of his lips upon hers, a whisper of his stubble against her skin. His kiss had been experimental, an unspoken question on his lips, but before she had been able to answer Vilkas had retreated, striding away across the ice without even a backwards look. If she had given him an answer, what would it have been? Would she have pulled away? Would she have kissed him back? Even now she could not be sure, despite having gone over and over the event countless times in her head when she ought to have been meditating on her studies.

What did it all mean? Could it be some sort of joke? As harsh as Vilkas could be on occasion, Myrna did not think he would be so cruel as to toy with her emotions in such a way, especially considering everything they had shared thus far. If not a joke, then what? Could it be at all possible that he truly cared for her? Over the months they had known each other they had butted heads more times than they had agreed, with more than one issue being settled in the training yard, but these recent weeks since her return from war had been different. Their usual venomous barbs had turned to banter and teasing, they stood back to back to face their foes together, and Vilkas had saved her life not once but twice in the time he had been accompanying her, from strangulation by the orsimer giant and from the fire her unruly Thu'um had started in the Viper's hideout. The blanket he had dutifully wrapped about her shoulders on their mountain climb had surely just been a gesture of concern for his silly Breton Shield-sister who had no business making such a perilous journey, let alone being Dragonborn – the hero of the Nordic race. But was it more than that? He had seemed so different when they parted from the Vilkas she knew, suddenly unwilling to meet her eye as he made his oath to return for her if she tarried too long here on the mountain. Seven days, he had said, and now five had passed and she felt no closer to mastering the power of her Voice than she had been when he had left her.

A sudden gust of wind blew a flurry of snow down the chimney with a howl, extinguishing the small fire she had set while it was still struggling to take hold. The embers died with a hiss as the water fell upon the hot coals, the sudden sound stirring Myrna from her muddled and tumultuous thoughts. With an angry grunt she threw Vilkas' blanket across the room where it landed in another corner. If Vilkas did have feelings for her, then how _dare_ he burden her with them now, when so much rested upon her shoulders? Myrna wanted to scream her vexation aloud, she wanted to fight something, to pummel her fists into a training dummy until either it or she fell to pieces. Most of all, she wanted to _Shout_.

Mirmulnir slithered in the chambers of her soul, his derisive laughter a distant echo that fuelled the rage in her heart. He did not need to say anything to undermine her confidence; she was doing the job well enough alone without his poisonous whispering. _Silence, worm, _she thought testily, and to her surprise the laughter stopped dead, though she could feel the beast watching her through her own eyes. Myrna closed her eyes tightly, trying to level her breathing and calm herself. She could sit idle no longer... she had to do something.

It was as if someone else had taken control of her body. Dawn had still not touched the sky, and yet she was striding through the halls of High Hrothgar with purpose, heading for the courtyard. Apparently she was not the only resident awake at this small hour, for as she reached for the door she felt a pair of eyes upon her. Turning she saw one of the Greybeards with torch in hand, tending to the braziers that lined the corridors from the main hall. A second glance and she recognised him as Master Borri, operator of the timed gate's mechanism; the very same man she had been damning to Oblivion's gates only a few hours before.

"Master," she said by way of greeting, giving him a cursory bow from beneath her hood. "I wish to practise the Whirlwind Sprint Shout before breakfast. Would you assist me?"

Borri stared at her long and hard, so still that he barely seemed to breathe, his eyes boring into her until her skin began to itch and crawl beneath his intense gaze. Finally, after what seemed like minutes his expression softened slightly; into something that might have been a pleasant smile if Myrna had been addressing any other man than a Greybeard.

He nodded. "As you wish, _Dovahkiin_."


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: *swings in dramatically on a rope* Not abandoned! I'm still ticking along with this, though the recent hot weather has made a procrastinator out of me... well more so than usual. As always lots of love and many internet cookies for your lovely reviews, follows and favs, every one brightens up my day. Still struggling with writer's block but I'm going to try and take a leaf out of the Companions' book and bash it with something heavy until it goes away :) Poor Vilkas, you broody broody boy...**

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><p>Wilhelm wiped down the tables of the tavern one by one, wondering whether he should put out the lanterns and call it a night. He had not served a paying customer since the afternoon; long hours working in the fields coupled with utterly miserable weather had made his regulars eager for the comfort of their own hearths once the sun had begun to set. Lynly Star-sung had already bid him goodnight and taken to her room, and Wilhelm missed the gentle strumming of her lute strings in the melancholy silence of the inn. Quiet as the common room was, he was not alone. Seated on one of the corner tables was Tomas, Ivarstead's only guardsman, who had abandoned his lonely post in favour of a warm fire and a bellyful of mead. Mead that Wilhelm was paying for out of his own pocket; an understanding the men had come to that meant that should any illegal trading take place at the Vilemyr Tomas would conveniently look the other way. Not that there was anything of note for the guard to "overlook", for the supplier who had promised to obtain the cases of Black-Briar mead had been ominously silent for quite some time now. Wilhelm did not dare to send the man a message; if Maven Black-Briar had caught wind of their arrangement then the elf thief Romlyn Dreth was almost certainly dead, his remains probably stashed in several watery graves in the lands surrounding Riften. Wilhelm did not at all wish to share his fate, though the barkeep was eternally grateful he had not paid Romlyn in advance for the goods.<p>

Tomas slumped over the table, clutching the very same flagon Wilhelm had poured for him a good half an hour ago, of which he had taken no more than one sip. If there was one thing the hard-up barkeep could not abide it was wasted mead, especially when he was paying for it, and the guard had consumed more than enough for one night. If he did not do something soon Tomas would pass out completely and he would not be rid of him until morning. Seizing a broom from behind the bar, Wilhelm began vigorously and noisily sweeping towards the guard's table, hoping that the clattering of furniture upon the floorboards would be enough to rouse him from his apparent stupor. For a moment it looked as though Tomas was stirring, his head lolling from one shoulder to the other and eventually forwards again, chin upon his chest as he gave a loud and vulgar snore from beneath his tangled whiskers. Wilhelm raised a hand to his temples and sighed.

There was only one thing for it.

Bending down, the barkeep jabbed the drunken guard in the back of the head with the broom handle, in what he could hopefully pass off as an innocent sweeping accident. The clang of the wood on the steel was most unpleasant, and must have been even worse for the man beneath the helm. Tomas roared in surprise and anger, leaping to his feet, where he swayed unsteadily. Clumsy fingers reached for the sword that should have been at his belt, obviously having quite forgotten that he had removed both sword and scabbard some hours ago and placed them upon the table.

"Peace, friend," Wilhelm soothed, casually resuming his sweeping. "Did I catch you with the broom there? How terribly clumsy of me, I do apologise."

Tomas blinked at him. Still swaying, he leant on the back of his chair to steady himself. "What is the hour?" he said at last, when his slurred speech returned to him.

"Past midnight," the barkeep lied, knowing full well it was a good hour away. "I was about to close up for the night, and I expect you'll be wanting to get back to the guard house...?"

Tomas sneered and spat upon the floor. "What's the point? There's no one there to relieve me of duty, or nothin' else in this stinkin' town worth drawin' sword for. How'd you do it, Wil? Openin' up this piece of shit inn every day, scrapin' by on barely enough coin to pay for the ale, let alone put food in yer mouth?"

The innkeeper ignored the insults to his establishment, thrusting Tomas' sheathed sword into his hands and guiding him in the direction of the door. Apparently unperturbed by the fact that he was practically being manhandled, or too drunk to care, Tomas continued his ranting against Ivarstead and her inhabitants.

"Was only s'posed to be here for a month," he grumbled darkly. "Damn backwater town, nothin' but mountain and rocks for miles. Not even pretty wenches to pass the time, all either ugly, inbred or too simple to know what to do with a man." He paused, and for a horrible moment Wilhelm thought he was going to puke down himself until Tomas belched, long, loud and right into the poor innkeeper's face. Wilhelm grit his teeth as the guard leaned heavily upon him. No matter what his arrangement with Tomas was, the rewards were in no way high enough in his favour that he should have to deal with this situation on an almost nightly basis. At last he had the door open, and was sorely tempted to push the guard bodily through it as still he lingered, teetering upon the threshold.

"Do you know," Tomas began again in an almost authoritative tone, jabbing the pommel of his sword dangerously close to Wilhelm's nose. "I used to be an adventurer, a long time ago. But then I..."

"...Took an arrow to the knee." Wilhelm finished exasperatedly. "Yes, yes, I know. Goodnight Tomas."

But Tomas either could not or would not take the hint, catching the door as Wilhelm attempted to close it behind him. "Don't s'pose I could have another for the road, good barkeep?" he grinned crookedly, with what was intended to be a wink but came out as more of a leering squint.

Wilhelm swallowed hard, wanting to refuse, but knowing what trouble might come of it if he did. He might be as pissed as a newt, but Tomas was still much bigger and stronger than he, and what's more, a guardsman - no matter how corrupt. He was about to relent and fetch one more bottle of mead when a third figure emerged from the shadows into the lamplight, a man larger than both of them, clad in heavy armour that rattled as he moved.

"Is there a problem, gentlemen?" Vilkas asked, the menace in his tone plain as he looked first from Wilhelm to Tomas, folding his arms across his broad chest.

The innkeeper practically beamed with relief. "Not at all, Companion. Tomas here was just leaving, weren't you Tomas?"

The guard gripped his sword handle, staring blearily up at the taller Nord. Vilkas returned his stare, eyes hard and unblinking, and Tomas wisely thought better of making a challenge. He staggered down the steps and to the muddy road that would eventually lead him towards the guardhouse, muttering under his breath darkly all the while.

Wilhelm opened the door wide again, ushering his saviour inside. Vilkas was glad to be indoors. While easier than the climb up, his descent from High Hrothgar had not been a pleasant one, he had fought his way through snowdrifts, hail and falling rocks from above, only to be greeted by a rainstorm when he finally made it back to the lowlands. Now he was cold, wet, and consumed with the feeling that he had made a terrible and unrectifiable mistake. Leaving Myrna alone in the monastery was one thing, but what madness had led him to kiss her as he had? Clumsy words he could take back, if he had declared his love for her there and then he could cover it all up with a lie, say he did not mean it, say it was a sudden crazy impulse brought on by the cold or the many strange happenings of their past few days together. A kiss was more difficult to explain away, and truthfully Vilkas did not think he could explain if he tried - not without making an utter fool of himself, if it was possible to make the situation any worse than it already was. What he did know was that he was planning to get drunk. Drunk enough to put even Ivarstead's illustrious guardsman to shame, and hopefully to forget the whole thing ever happened – at least until the Harbinger returned.

As the weather-beaten warrior passed him Wilhelm peered outside again into the darkness, looking left and right expectantly. "Myrna -er, the Harbinger does not accompany you?" he queried finally, his hand upon the door, unsure whether to close it against the rain that was blowing in with the gale and soaking the mat at his feet.

Vilkas set down his sword and took a seat before the firepit. The heat from the flames felt good upon his damp and chilled skin, and he soon began to feel himself thawing out in the warmth. "She has business upon the mountain. I am to wait for her here."

"You mean to say the Greybeards accepted her?" Wilhelm replied, shutting the door at last. His expression had become one of wonderment, barely registering what he was doing as he placed the bar across the frame on the third attempt. "They have not done such a thing in many decades, what made them choose your Harbinger out of the hundreds of pilgrims before her?"

Vilkas was fast becoming tired of the conversation. He folded his arms across his chest in a manner that he hoped would reflect his feelings. "Myrna is a very capable woman," he replied curtly.

"Oh I do not doubt it," Wilhelm chuckled good-naturedly, sensing that probing the matter any further might put him at serious risk. He crossed to the bar and retrieved a small pouch which he held up for Vilkas to see. "Klimmek was in here earlier, said this was what he owed you for running an errand for him. I've always said he was mad climbing the mount by himself all these years, especially given his age and that bad back of his. Glad he finally saw sense and paid someone else to do it for him." He grinned again and tossed the pouch to the Companion, who caught it deftly in one hand.

Pulling the drawstring open Vilkas frowned at the meagre amount of coins concealed within. In his opinion it was not nearly enough to pay for the service they had done for the man, but it would pay for a few days bed and board at least. "Klimmek failed to mention there would be ice wraiths on the mountain," he said sourly.

"Ice wraiths? Surely not."

"Four. And a troll."

Wilhelm began cleaning the bar with a grubby cloth, a habit he adopted whenever he felt uncomfortable. "Dear me, most unfortunate. You'll have to take it up with Klimmek, I'm afraid. Still, nothing a pair of _Companions _couldn't handle I'd wager! Now, you've had a long journey my good man – can I get you something to drink?"

Finally, the question Vilkas had been waiting to hear. "Something strong," he answered, stuffing the coins into his pack. "I tire of mead and ale."

"Very good, very good," the Innkeeper blustered, rummaging around underneath the bar with a clinking of bottles and cups. "I could offer you some Argonian Bloodwine, but I can tell you are a gentleman of a much more refined taste." One look at Vilkas' face told Wilhelm he would not endear himself to the man with flattery, and he continued searching amongst the long-forgotten beverages for something else. At last he found the bottle he was looking for, hastily wiping off the dust from the glass before placing it upon the bar. "Now this," he said, looking triumphant, "this is something truly special."

At last Vilkas' interest was piqued. He had seen bottles like this one before, but not for many years – far before he had begun frequenting taverns, which he and his brother had done from an earlier age than was considered proper even in Skyrim. He walked over to the bar and picked it up, turning it over in his hands to inspect the engravings upon its surface.

"Nordic whiskey," Wilhelm grinned, glad to have the warrior's attention. "Not made since the Great War, and strong enough to put a giant on its arse. I've been saving it for years. Between you and me, it's wasted on the locals that drink here. You wanted hard liquor my friend Companion, well, you won't get better than this, mark my words."

Vilkas uncorked the bottle, allowing the sharp aroma of the fermented grain to cut through his senses like a knife. He breathed it in long and deep. Wilhelm might be a sweaty little rip-off merchant, but he was not exaggerating the quality of the beverage he now held in his hand. He wanted to fog his wits with drink, and this would certainly do the trick. Correct in the assumption he had made a sale, Wilhelm placed a cup upon the bar before him, which Vilkas filled with a generous measure of the golden liquid.

"One for yourself, barkeep," he said, to Wilhelm's astonishment. "I'll be taking the bottle to my room, if it's all the same."

Without waiting for a reply he placed the pouch of coins on the bar by way of payment, striding off to the room he had shared with Myrna the night before to drink his cares away in privacy.

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><p>When he finally awoke the next afternoon, Vilkas felt as though a herd of mammoths had been stampeding through his skull. Clasping his hands to his throbbing head, he rolled over onto his back, only to find himself staring at an unfamiliar ceiling. This was not his room at Jorrvaskr - nor was this his bed. Slowly and with great effort his muddled brain began to piece things together; he remembered the inn, the mountain, the Greybeards – and Myrna. <em>Myrna. <em>Suddenly in the harsh, unforgiving light of day that streamed through the high windows Vilkas saw the folly in trying to lose himself in the bottom of a bottle. Now the thoughts he had wanted to escape came flooding back to the forefront of his mind, together with a churning feeling in his stomach that made him want to retch over the side of the creaking bed. Somewhere between the first swig and the last drops of whiskey on his tongue he had quite forgotten about the ill-conceived kiss, the strength of the alcohol lulling him from the internal maelstrom of his thoughts into a relaxing stupor, and finally into a heavy and dreamless sleep.

The room was spinning around him. Vilkas winced as his stomach gave another unpleasant lurch and he turned over again, tangling himself in the blankets and wondering how he had even managed to undress himself in his addled state. He groaned into his rented pillow, waiting for the sensation of momentum and his desire to puke to subside. When he dared to breathe in again, he realised that in the process of taking to bed last night he had made a rather foolish mistake. Either that or his subconscious had betrayed him unforgivably.

Upon the pillow the sweet scent of honey and apple filled his nose, the warm fragrance achingly familiar and making his heart stutter in his chest. Vilkas groaned again, knotting his fingers in his matted black hair in anguish. Of course that cretin of an innkeeper had not thought to change the bedclothes after they had been used, and his drunken self had not taken care to note which of the little beds he had collapsed into. This was not his bed, but the one Myrna had used. The mattress beneath him was the very same one she had slept upon, the blankets that had kept her warm the night previously were now wrapped haphazardly around his naked body, leaving most of him bare. He was breathing her in, safe and warm in her bed, knowing Myrna herself was miles away on a frozen mountain trying to learn the skills she needed to save their world. Knowing he could do nothing to help her in that was pure torture, and being apart from her made it all the worse. It was physical pain. Vilkas wrapped his arms about his head, blocking the light from his eyes and the world from his mind. It did not help. He could deny it to himself no longer. He was completely and utterly in love with the Harbinger.

And now he had kissed her, what must she think of him? Was she angry that he had forced his affections upon her in such a way? _She should be_, Vilkas thought. He was furious with himself for his behaviour - to kiss her and leave her like that was cowardly. Cowardly, weak and pathetic. He should have been honest with her from the beginning, from the moment the feelings of love for her had kindled in his heart, though when exactly that had been he could not precisely recall. He had always thought her attractive; a man would have to be blind or daft to _not_ think she was so. Her looks had been part of the reason he had been so against her joining the Companions, mistakenly believing a dainty, pretty thing such as she could not stand shoulder to shoulder with warriors of their ilk. Since then she had proven herself many times over, yet he had remained unimpressed until the day she freed Kodlak from Hircine's grasp in the afterlife. After that there could be no doubt she belonged at Jorrvaskr, and that she was a woman Vilkas could allow himself to fall for.

Vilkas breathed into the pillow again, sullying the delicate remnants of Myrna's perfume with the harshness of the alcohol on his breath. This was precisely why he had always avoided women. When he still had the Beastblood the wolf within him made things so much simpler, seeking out females for nothing more than a night of sordid rutting, to satisfy nothing more than his basest male desires. Vilkas as a whole man, without the taint of lycanthopy in his blood, wanted something else – something _more_, but could he even dare to hope that the object of his affections might feel the same way about him?

Pulling the rest of the blanket around himself Vilkas scoffed at the notion. It was ridiculous, especially now he knew that Myrna was the Dragonborn. Of all the things she had to deal with, everything the Gods had thrust upon her, how could he complicate things further by adding his feelings to the mix? It was beyond selfish. Yet he could not help but wonder...

Suppose Myrna did care for him. Suppose her stillness when he kissed her had been mere surprise rather than shock - that if he had lingered for a moment longer her lips might have moved against his, that they might have parted just slightly, allowed his tongue to meet hers; that she might have kissed him back with the passion that he had craved every night since she left Jorrvaskr to go to war. Vilkas scoffed at himself again. Even more ridiculous. Myrna had never looked at him as anything more than her Shield-brother, and another thing - who was to say she did not already have a sweetheart somewhere in Skyrim? While he had never seen a wedding band on her finger, it did not mean some other lucky man could not have already won Myrna's heart. Some handsome soldier in the Stormcloak army perhaps? The unwelcome thought cut like a blade, the imagined face of the nameless man taunting him even behind his closed eyelids. With an angry grunt Vilkas lashed out, balled fist striking the wooden dresser before him and sending the melted candles toppling to the floor. His knuckles split upon impact; though the stinging pain was nothing compared to what he felt within his heart or head. Despairing and hung over; if Shor came for him now Vilkas would welcome the God of Death with open arms.

He had told Myrna he would wait seven days for her. Not even one had passed and already he was a mess. At once Vilkas was angry again, this time with himself, clenching his hands into fists and wincing as the crimson blood trickled between his fingers.. He was a Companion. He put the needs of others before his own, fought for those who could not fight for themselves – he could not and would not lie around moping like some lovesick whelp. Whenever Myrna came down from the mountain he would be here waiting as he had promised, and would account for himself and the way they had parted company then. In the meantime he could find plenty around Ivarstead to occupy himself with, and he set about finding his clothes to begin doing just that.


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N: I'm sorrrrryyyy :( I'm a terrible fanfic writer, making people wait, so much has happened these last few months but I'm going to do better I swear. Much love and cookies to those who are still here. Anyway, here's poor Vilkas killing time while he waits for the moment of truth, such as it is.**

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><p>Shroud Hearth barrow was much like any other Nord burial mound, covered in moss and creepers, the grey stones cracked and weathered by the passing of the years. Vilkas had taken Wilhelm's ghost stories with a generous pinch of salt, wondering if the barkeep had made the tales up to try and entice more tourists and adventurers into the village. It was only when Lynly Starsung echoed Wilhelm's account of the haunting that Vilkas began to take notice. Lynly seemed to have a reasonable head on her shoulders, she was not the type to make up fanciful tales as the rest of the Vilemyr Inn's regulars would. Lynly told him she had seen the spirit herself – a glowing blue spectre weaving through the stones, moaning eerily after her as she had turned and fled back to the safety of the inn. When he announced his intention to go and investigate the barrow for himself Lynly had vehemently warned him against it, as did Wilhelm, who did not even take the trouble to pretend he had not been eavesdropping on their conversation. The innkeeper told him of the fate of Wyndelius Gatharian, an adventurer who had attempted to explore the barrow a year ago and had not been heard from since.<p>

Vilkas elected to ignore them both, throwing his sword over his shoulder and heading straight for the abandoned tomb. As he entered the inner circle of the barrow he encountered a stone slab littered with ancient and rusted embalming tools, where the Nords of old would have prepared their dead for burial. Also upon the slab were some mouldy books, their covers and pages ruined by exposure to the elements, a clay urn, and most intriguingly a candlestick that was set with three candles that flickered as the wind toyed with their flames. If no one had visited the barrow for a year, then who was it that had lit the candles? Something was not right here, and Vilkas was determined to find out what it was.

Pushing open the carved stone door he made his way down the narrow spiral ramp, taking care to watch for rotten wood or broken slats. While he did not believe in ghosts there was no doubt that this barrow was dangerous; he was not about to injure himself or break a limb by falling, especially not since he had come here alone. It was strange being without one of his Shield-siblings at his side... without Myrna. He expected the Harbinger would have loved exploring the tomb; with her keen eye for treasure and fondness for solving puzzles she would have been in her element. Vilkas shook the thoughts off immediately. The very reason he had come down here was to take his mind off such things. Better to enjoy the quiet, to use it to listen for signs of the supposed spirit lurking within the catacombs.

The spirit did not disappoint him. As he made his way through the passage a prickling sensation at the back of his neck alerted Vilkas to the fact that he was being watched. He span around to find ethereal figure staring at him through a gate to his right. Instinctively Vilkas reached for his sword despite not knowing whether he could even harm the spirit with the blade. His heart hammered in his chest, unable to take his eyes from the ghost as it regarded him in return. It was not the ghost of a Nord man, but an elf... a Dunmer more specifically, his once red eyes now white and unblinking in death. Had Wyndelius been a Dunmer? Was this his ghost now standing before him? Vilkas thought he would have to buy Wilhelm several drinks when he returned to the Vilemyr – he had not thought for one moment that the tales of the haunting might have been true.

The spirit's mouth opened and it began to speak, its ghostly voice echoing throughout the chamber. "Leave this place..." it moaned, its strange eyes still fixed upon Vilkas'. The Companion kept his grip on his sword and stared back, still at a loss as for what to do.

"Leave this place..." the ghost of Wyndelius repeated, turning and walking slowly away from the gate. "Leave... leave... leave..."

It was then Vilkas saw something strange, even stranger than what he had just witnessed. Though the spirit was translucent, as it passed the sconce on the wall it cast a very dark, very solid shadow upon the stone floor beneath. Vilkas' heart returned to a steady beat as his initial panic began to subside. This was not a haunting, though what it _really_ was he could not say.

Spurred on by his own curiosity Vilkas worked his way deeper into the catacombs, paying no mind to the skeletons and withered remains of corpses that lined the walls. His sharp mind made quick work of a puzzle consisting of several levers, pulling each until he found the combination required to open his route to the antechamber and reaching it in time to see a door snap shut as the glowing figure passed through it. If he had not been convinced before that this was no ghost, Vilkas certainly was now. What sort of spirit used doors when they could phase through solid objects? He pulled the chain to release the door again, ready to put an end to the mystery of Shroud Hearth Barrow once and for all.

Creeping through another burial chamber Vilkas caught sight of the figure again, a blue glow in the dim torchlight a few feet ahead. The Dunmer was wandering aimlessly to and fro, humming and laughing as he spoke animatedly in what appeared to be a one-sided conversation. If the elf _was_ alive, then he was clearly quite mad.

Vilkas lowered his sword a little, taking a tentative step towards the luminous stranger. "Wyndelius...?"

At once the elf whirled upon him with a cackle, a crackling shock spell flying from his outstretched hand and missing Vilkas by mere inches. "Death comes for you now!" he screamed, sparks appearing at his fingers once more as he prepared his next attack. Vilkas did not give him a chance to strike again, driving the point of his sword into Wyndelius' chest. At once the elf ceased to glow, his breath escaping with a spatter of blood as Vilkas withdrew the blade, allowing him to fall to the slabs. Kneeling, the warrior examined the body before him, dull and lifeless as it was now. Wyndelius' flesh had been warm, and aside from the odd scar there was nothing remarkable about him. Sensing there was yet more to the Dunmer's story, Vilkas stood and made his way down the steps and into a small room.

This apparently was where Wyndelius had been living for the past year. A bedroll lay before the roaring fire, a bookcase stood in one corner and in another was a very stained and much used alchemy station. Strange ingredients hung from the walls and upon the large table was a large vial of potion, the like of which Vilkas had never seen before. The liquid inside did not behave as a liquid should. Instead it swirled and glistened inside the glass bottle like silver dust in a whirlwind. Next to the potion was a thin book bound in leather. Vilkas picked it up, finding within its pages the missing parts of Wyndelius Gatharian's story.

In his journal the elf had written that he had come to Shroud Hearth Barrow in search of some sort of treasure which he referred to only as the "claw". He had been using the villagers' superstitious fears to his own advantage, making strange noises and eventually a potion that would give him the appearance of a ghostly spirit. With this disguise he had kept people away from the Barrow for a year as he searched desperately for the claw, each journal entry detailing in his own hand his descent into madness. Whether he had lost his mind due to the futility of his search or the strange potions he had imbibed was anyone's guess. Placing the journal in his pack Vilkas made his way back up through the tunnels, intending to show this evidence to Wilhelm and put an end to this ghost nonsense once and for all.

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><p>Wilhelm was astounded as he read the journal, his anger and embarrassment increasing with the turn of every page. He could not believe they had been duped for so long, that their heroic adventurer was nothing more than a bandit hunting for treasure among the bones of their ancestors. The barkeep thanked Vilkas profusely on behalf of Ivarstead for uncovering the truth, but requested that he keep the details of his discovery to himself if possible. To this Vilkas agreed, for the Companions were nothing if not discreet in their appointments, for which Wilhelm was extremely grateful. Of all the village folk who had spoken of the "ghost" Wilhelm had been the most vociferous, telling any and all who would listen about his experience with the glowing spectre in the barrow. As a token of his gratitude he presented Vilkas with a strange object, a gold sculpture shaped like a dragon's claw, decorated with engravings and one large blue sapphire in its centre. It occurred to Vilkas that this might have been the very item Wyndelius had been searching for, though he had not the least idea what it might be. He bade Wilhelm to keep the thing for him, to pour him a drink and they would say nothing more about the entire affair.<p>

Despite not knowing all the details of the event, word soon got around the village that a Companion had cleared Shroud Hearth Barrow of the evil spirits that had haunted it. Vilkas soon found himself the most popular man in Ivarstead, much to his consternation, for he had little patience for the locals or the endless conversations and small talk they subjected him to whenever he attempted to have a quiet drink in the bar. Vilkas could not abide making small talk at the best of times; the only thing that stopped him from taking his drinks to his room was the fact that his thoughts turned inevitably to Myrna whenever he was alone. He had a feeling she would be amused by his sudden popularity; the very thought of laughter in her dark brown eyes and her teasing smile made his heart feel as if it were being squeezed tight. She would probably never smile at him like that ever again.

When the requests for favours started to come in Vilkas was glad of something to do, keen to do anything if it would distract him from his heartache. Over the next few days he found himself performing a myriad of tasks for the village folk: clearing bears from Temba Wide-Arm's land, helping Boti of Fellstar Farm to gather her crops in for the harvest, and assisting Gwilin with chopping wood so the cheerful elf would not get in trouble with his ill-tempered mistress. All this he did for no more payment than a drink in the Vilemyr when the evening drew in, going to bed so exhausted that he had little time to fret about Myrna and what he was going to say to her when she returned.

When the chores dried up there was reading to do. By the sixth day Vilkas had more or less devoured every book he could borrow from the villagers. Ivarstead was not a very well-read community, and Vilkas was halfway into his second read through of _The Woodcutter's Wife _when he felt his mind begin to wander. Only one more day remained for Myrna to arrive at the inn, otherwise he was going to have to climb the Throat of the World again to retrieve her. It was not the climb that concerned him, but how he was going to face the Harbinger after their awkward farewell. It would be easier on him if she came down, he thought, where she would be unable to Shout him from the mountain top if his presence caused her offence.

Even if she did come to the inn, Vilkas had no idea as to what he was going to say to her, nor did he know what her mood would be when she turned up. It was the not knowing that was driving him to distraction. Vilkas needed to have some knowledge of every situation he was placed in so that he might prepare a reaction, a defence. If Myrna was angry with him he wanted to be ready for it, to have some sort of explanation that would excuse his actions and limit his humiliation if she wanted nothing more to do with him. They had not fought for some time, not as they used to, when sounds of their raised voices echoed throughout Jorrvaskr until either Aela or Farkas came to separate them. Myrna's anger he could cope with - the thought of her spurning him completely was the thing that Vilkas knew he could not bear.

But she would not do that, surely. They would talk, air out their feelings on the matter like reasonable adults, then carry on as they always had. No doubt it would be awkward at first. Vilkas knew would have to work hard to keep his feelings in check, but he was sure in time their tentative friendship would be back on track, the way it was supposed to be. If Myrna did not think of him in the same way he thought of her, he would still be honoured to call himself her Shield-brother, standing by her side against whatever the world threw at them.

The warrior let out a long sigh, allowing the book to fall over his face and cover his eyes. If only his brother were here. While he might not have been able to offer much in the way of helpful advice, Farkas was always happy to lend a sympathetic ear whenever Vilkas needed one, to listen to his grousing without judgement or comment. Farkas' flagon had always been half full whereas Vilkas' cup was constantly half empty, and he always found a way of cheering his twin out of his bouts of melancholy and brooding. '_You think too much, brother,' _was all he would say, and for once Vilkas had no argument. It was not thinking that had got him into this mess in the first place.

When they had been wolves Farkas would have hoisted him to his feet and forced him to join him in their favourite past time – hunting deer in the fields surrounding Whiterun. They would wait for the cover of darkness and find a place to make the change, sharing the exquisite pain of their brutal transformations together beneath the full moon, snapping at each others' legs playfully as they followed the scent of their prey. Then came the chase, the thrill of tearing across the grassland unseen by human eyes in pursuit of the terrified doe, the tearing of teeth and claws on flesh and fur and the wild frenzy of the hunt. It was hard to remember the cares you had as a man by day when by night you could become a wild and immensely powerful werewolf. Vilkas missed this side of his wolf-spirit more than he could say, but alas it was a sacrifice he and Farkas had made in return for the promise of Sovngarde. Kodlak had insisted it would be worth it, and so far the man had been right about everything else.

Removing the book from his face Vilkas sat up, rubbing his weary eyes with his thumb and forefinger. He could not stay inside all day chasing his thoughts in circles. When his vision cleared his eyes fell upon his bow, leaning against the wall in the corner as he had left it when he reclaimed the room. An idea struck him. Just because he was no longer a werewolf did not mean he could not hunt. He was under no illusion that it would be the same, but there were plenty of deer in the area, and he was becoming tired of fish and boiled potatoes every night. With new purpose he gathered his effects and headed out to make the most of what little time he had left to squander.

* * *

><p>After a long afternoon and evening he discovered he had been right. Stalking deer as a man was nothing like as thrilling as it had been with the beastblood; it had taken him the best part of the day to track the animal he had chosen and bring it down with arrow and bow. Still he felt no small sense of pride when he lifted the young buck onto his shoulders, its small antlers bobbing on its dangling head with every step he took. Vilkas reached the inn just before nightfall, where a hero's welcome awaited him once the innkeeper saw what he had brought back with him. Vilkas did try to suggest that the carcass should be hung for a while before butchering, but Wilhelm would hear nothing of it, setting to work in his kitchen to produce a meal of roast venison for the small congregation gathered in the Vilemyr that evening. With red meat to go alongside them Vilkas found he could face the plain boiled spuds for one more night, tucking into his steak with immense satisfaction. His cup was not allowed to empty at all that night and Vilkas found he was more disposed towards conversation with the regulars when they were practically queuing up to buy him drinks.<p>

There was one man who was not in good spirits, however. Tomas the guardsman sat in the far corner of the inn at the table he had long ago claimed as his own, drinking his mead and glaring at Vilkas every time they caught each other's eye. If Tomas was hoping to intimidate the Companion he was doing a poor job, for Vilkas simply glared back. The vitriol of a drunken guard was not about to bother him, but as the hours passed he couldn't help but wonder what exactly Tomas' problem was. When Lynly passed by near to his table Vilkas decided to ask her.

"Oh, Tomas," she said, grimacing. "He's a horrid little man, when I play I stay away from him. Has a bad case of wandering hands, that one. He seems to be in here drinking more than patrolling, reckons no holds can spare the soldiers to relieve him. Bullshit in my opinion. Wilhelm lets him drink for free, as to why I have no idea. I think Tomas has something over him, though I wish I knew what it was. For all his faults Wilhelm is a good man, I don't like seeing him taken advantage of."

Vilkas nodded and thanked the pretty bard, offering her a coin for the information and a song. When she began playing the opening bars to "The Dragonborn Comes" he winced at the irony, taking a deep swig of mead from his flagon. When he looked up Tomas was still watching him, malice in his bleary eyes and foam dripping from his beard. Vilkas smirked and raised his mug, eliciting a sneer from the guard as he finally turned away. If Tomas had a mind to make trouble then he was biding his time, at least.

As the night went on a storm descended on the village, rattling the windows and doors with the force its snowy gales. Loathe to go out and face the elements many of the regulars stayed long after midnight, gambling and supping until Wilhelm had to practically chase them out with his broom. Lynly had taken to her bed, and soon it was only the innkeeper and Vilkas left in the bar... and Tomas.

"Er, I don't suppose you would give me a hand with him?" Wilhelm asked sheepishly, gesturing towards the guard in the corner. Tomas' head was upon the table, having drunk so much that he had passed out again.

"It would be my pleasure," Vilkas replied, getting to his feet. He had consumed a reasonable amount of mead himself, but had been wise enough not to drink enough that he would be feeling the effects the next day. He did not relish the thought of climbing a mountain with a hang over, that was for sure.

Vilkas strode across the inn to the guard's table while Wilhelm went to get the door. He was not about rouse Tomas gently. The guard had been needling him all night with his staring, apparently he did not have the balls to speak a word to him. Vilkas raised Tomas' mug and bashed it down hard on the table in front of his face, waking him instantly.

"Hell's teeth!" Tomas swore, nearly toppling backwards off his chair. "What yer do that for?"

"Inn's closing," Vilkas answered brusquely, "Time for you to go."

"I ain't goin' nowhere," said Tomas, raising the mug to his lips. It was empty. "Put another one in there, Wilhelm."

"You're leaving. Now." Vilkas was in no mood to quibble. He hoisted the guard up by his shoulder, shoving him in the direction of the door. Tomas tried to resist but he was too far gone, and would have toppled into the firepit if Vilkas had not caught him. He stared into the larger Nord's face with one bloodshot eye, swaying all the while.

"Oh, s'you," he slurred as the spark of recognition came to him at last. "Should've known Wilhelm would send someone else t' do his dirty work for him."

"What sort of guard are you?" Vilkas glowered, rapidly losing his patience. "I don't know why the innkeeper puts up with you here, lingering around the bar all day like a bad smell."

A nasty smile crept across Tomas' face. "We have an understanding, don't we Wilhelm? Our gentle barkeep has been up to mischief – he needs to keep me sweet to buy my silence."

"Silence for what?"

"Not necessary!" Wilhelm interrupted shrilly, fumbling with the lock on the door. He had gone very red in the face. "Tomas, could you just go now please? I don't want any trouble, I beg you!"

The drunkard leaned closer to Vilkas, the stench of his alcohol breath making the Companion wrinkle his nose in distaste. Either he was too drunk to keep his secret, or he simply did not care any more.

"Wilhelm's been conspiring to smuggle Black-Briar mead, tryin' to make drinkin' in this dump more appealing, as if anythin' could. T'would be a terrible shame if Maven Black-Briar were to find out about it. Now there's a woman who does not take kindly to bein' swindled, that's for damn sure."

Wilhelm's palms had gone sweaty. Unable to keep hold of the door the wind caught it from him, yanking it open and showering him in a flurry of snow. The barkeep scarcely seemed to notice. His secret was out – he might as well hand himself in to the Black-Briars himself.

Vilkas turned to the innkeeper, the expression on the man's face a clear confirmation of his guilt. His icy silver eyes fell again upon the guard, his lip curling in a sneer of utter contempt for the vile little man before him. Guardsman or no, Vilkas had never had time for bullies.

"That is quite an accusation. Where is your proof?" he challenged menacingly.

Tomas spat upon the floorboards. "I don't need proof. I heard it straight from the horse's mouth."

"Maven wouldn't take the word of an addlepated s'wit such as you," Vilkas replied, "She could tear this entire inn apart and not find one bottle of Black-Briar mead, I'd wager. I would vouch for Wilhelm's innocence myself, as a Companion of Jorrvaskr my words carry weight. More so than yours. Now get out of here, you worthless drunk. If I catch you in this inn again I will see that you regret it."

He shoved Tomas towards the door again, sending him sprawling onto the floor in front of Wilhelm's feet. The guard was not done talking however, glaring up at Vilkas as he rose unsteadily to his hands and knees.

"_Companion... _pah!" he spat, blood trickling into his beard from his newly split lip. "Time was when the Companions were honourable warriors. What is your business here? I have not seen you do anything for the past week besides drink and chop wood."

"My business is my own," Vilkas replied, taking a warning step towards the man. "Are you going to leave on your own accord, or do you need my boot to assist you?"

Using a nearby table Tomas pulled himself onto his feet. Despite the indignity of his situation, he was not going to crawl out of the door. "Whatever happened to your girl... the one you came here with? Did you lose her somewhere on the mountain? A shame if you did, she was a pretty one. I've heard about Breton women, the things their magic can do for a man... I bet she goes like a rabbit, your little manmeri whore -"

That was the final straw. Seeing red Vilkas yanked the guard up by the scruff of his cloak, forcing him against the nearest wall so hard that his helmet crashed against the stone and fell to the ground. Tomas' feet were lifted half a foot from the floorboards and he gasped, suddenly fearful, staring helplessly into the warrior's features as they contorted with rage.

"You dare..." Vilkas growled, drawing his right fist back. The guard winced, waiting for the impact, knowing no apology could save him from the wrath of the Companion. At the last second it was another voice that stayed the big man's hand.

"Making friends I see, Vilkas?" said Myrna, emerging through the threshold from the storm outside.


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: Hello to all my new followers, and welcome back to those who have been following the story. Another update for you, because you're all super and lovely and every notification I get from you guys makes me squee :) I write this as a hobby, and it's so lovely to know that people are enjoying it. Might be a while before my next update because I'm going back to college soon but my daughter is starting school as well, which means more time for writing at home... sod the housework ;)**

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><p>Vilkas dropped the guard at once, letting him fall to his knees upon the floorboards as he span around to face the Harbinger. She was covered in snow and frost from head to toe, with an old robe frozen solid wrapped around her leathers, but it was truly her. Vilkas could scarcely believe it, and his heart skipped a beat when he saw she had used his own blanket to shield her face from the elements, leaving only her eyes and the bridge of her nose visible in the lamplight. Her dark eyes brimmed with amusement at the scene before her, and even though her mouth was covered Vilkas could tell she was grinning broadly.<p>

"So..." she began, "Is anyone going to tell me what's going on, or am I to draw my own conclusions?"

Vilkas was still rendered speechless, so it was Wilhelm who answered for him. "Nothing to concern yourself with, my lady. Your man here was assisting me with a small problem – you know how it is."

Myrna glanced at the barkeep, then to Vilkas, and finally to the man who sat doubled over, coughing on the floor. They might have been shabby and ill-kept, but the colours the man wore were Stormcloak colours, the armour of a soldier or a guard. _Small problem my eye, _she thought, but she was far too tired to press the issue any further and quite frankly she didn't much care.

It was Tomas who finally broke the silence, spitting a mouthful of blood as he once again rose to his feet. "I'll see you all hanged for this," he muttered, staggering to the door. "You mark my words, you'll all pay."

"That is enough of your threats, Tomas," Wilhelm seethed, months of resentment towards the guard simmering to the surface at last. "You have nothing on me. You are no longer welcome in my inn, nor Ivarstead for that matter. I will be sending a message to the Jarl in the morning. You should think about getting out of the village before I receive a reply."

The guard started at the innkeeper's sudden boldness, finding no reply of his own to make. He was suddenly very aware that he was outnumbered, and of how close he had been to being pummelled into the wall by Vilkas only a few short moments ago. Listing heavily to one side Tomas headed towards the door, fixing Wilhelm with as venomous a glare as his drunkenness would allow before heading out into the swirling storm. Wilhelm slammed and barred the door behind him, the expression on his face one of utmost relief.

"That man has been a thorn in my side for an age," he said, turning his beaming face towards Vilkas. "I cannot thank you enough, friend. I believe this calls for drinks all round – on me of course."

Vilkas made a non-committal grunt, not taking his eyes from Myrna. The ice and snow on her robe and cloak were beginning to melt as she warmed herself by the firepit, thawing her numbed hands over the flames. When the frost on her clothes began to drip she reached up, lifting her stiff hood and the blanket from her face. Vilkas drew in a sharp breath when he saw what lay beneath. The Harbinger's once pale skin was a mass of purple bruises and barely-healed cuts, her bottom lip swollen and protruding slightly. Even her eyes showed signs of injury, the skin around them tinged yellow – the remains of what had until a day or so ago been a matching pair of blackened eyes. She looked like a woman who had recently done battle with a small army of trolls, and had missed more than one night of sleep besides. In short she looked terrible, a shadow of the warrior he had left on the mountain.

"Gods Myrna," he breathed, his voice so low it was not much more than a whisper. He almost took a step towards her then hesitated. "What did they do to you?"

Myrna shook out her tangled hair, sending droplets of water and melted snow in all directions. "It's nothing," she lied, "I did most of this to myself, to be honest. Not focused enough, but then that's always been my problem, hasn't it?" The smile she turned to him was weak, without the humour that her tone suggested. There was none of her usual sparkle in her eyes, only the weariness and pain that she was trying her best to hide from him. Vilkas knew her better than that. He wanted to comfort her, to hold her in his arms, let her lean on him... but he was afraid. Afraid that if he approached her now she would flinch away from him and break his heart.

"You should get some sleep. You've had a long journey." The words sounded stupid as he said them - of course she was aware of the distance she had walked, but he found comfort in being practical.

Myrna nodded, the corner of her damaged lip turning up only slightly. "Yes," she said quietly. "Sleep would be good."

She went to move past him, unsteady on her aching feet. The storm had been a nightmare, thick snow and icy wind from the moment she set out and she was frozen to the bone. Her pack was heavy across her shoulders, just a few more feet and she could put it down.

"Here, let me," Vilkas said, reaching for the bag.

"I've got it," she replied, maybe a little too sharply, trying to disguise her limp as she headed for their rented room.

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><p>Vilkas entered the room a while later, giving the Harbinger what he hoped was adequate time to undress and prepare herself for bed in privacy. He had considered allowing her the room to herself; he would have been content to spend the night in a chair before the firepit were it not for Wilhelm. Elated by the fact that Tomas would no longer be drinking his meagre profits away the innkeeper decided some sort of celebration was in order, lining up flagons upon the bar and insisting that Vilkas was to join him. For every cup Vilkas finished Wilhelm quaffed two, and very soon the barkeep was three sheets to the wind, red faced and singing a song so utterly filthy it would have made Torvar blush. By the second verse Lynly had appeared, her blonde hair tousled from her disturbed sleep, demanding to know what on Nirn was going on. The annoyance on the bard's face dissipated instantly once she was told the news. She took a stool at the bar in her nightgown, grinning broadly as she accepted a sloppily-filled cup from her landlord. Vilkas chose that point to leave them, not wanting to drink any more himself, and bid the pair goodnight before retiring.<p>

Upon entering the room he almost tripped over Myrna's pack, which she had abandoned only a couple of feet beyond the door in front of the dying embers of the fire. The room would have been dark were it not for the windows. Moonlight reflected on the snow outside illuminated Myrna's sleeping form with an almost unnatural brightness, the shadows beneath her eyes even more evident now that they were closed. It seemed as if she had simply slept where she had fallen, on her front and atop the blankets, her right arm and leg hanging over the side of the rickety frame. Save for removing her weather-sodden robe, which Vilkas picked up from the floor and placed before the fire, Myrna had been too exhausted to undress at all. The one boot she had managed to kick off lay on the other side of the room, a small puddle forming beneath it as the water it had absorbed began to seep into the floorboards.

Vilkas moved to the dresser as silently as he could, placing upon it a small plate of meat, bread and cheese he had procured for her to break her fast when she woke up. Somehow he did not think she would be waking soon. He had never seen the Harbinger looking so awful – not even in the days after her return from Solitude. Whatever trials the Greybeards had put her through were going to take her some time to recover from. With a glance at Myrna's lovely face, mottled with bruises and cuts in the moonlight, Vilkas hoped whatever it was had been worth it.

The Companion sat down upon his own bed, watching the gentle movement of her breathing and letting out a long and heavy breath of his own. This had not been anything like the reunion he had expected. He had expected an argument, or awkwardness at the very least. Instead she had acted as if their parting kiss had not even happened, which was strangely worse. He tried not to think too much into it, ignoring his inner pessimist, reminding himself of how blatantly exhausted the Harbinger had been when she came through the door. She could barely stand, let alone anything else. He would have to be patient, surely the conversation he had been so dreading would be able to wait until the morning.

Vilkas place his head into his hands, resting his elbows upon his knees. What an utter fool he was. What did he have to offer this beautiful creature - the _Dragonborn _no less? She deserved so much more than he could ever give her. He knew this, had accepted it as a painful truth, yet had continued to entertain his absurd fantasies that she might feel the same way about him as he did about her. More than once, when in his cups, he had dreamed that when she returned she would greet him with a kiss of her own – that she would cast aside the burdens the world had placed upon her and simply fall into bed with him. Vilkas dug his fingers into his temples and grimaced at his drunken self's shameful wishful thinking. This was the reason he generally preferred to keep his feelings to himself, staying emotionally uninvolved with the women he bedded for the sake of his own sanity. Over the years he had seen many men lose their heads over a girl, his brother included – he had never dreamt the same thing could ever happen to him. Women were not complicated, as it turned out. _Love_ was complicated. And now here he was, in love with a woman whose least concern should be the desires of his foolish heart.

With another dejected exhalation Vilkas squared his slumped shoulders. Moping had got him nowhere thus far, there was no point in wasting time that would be better spent sleeping. A quick glance into the hearth was enough to tell him the little fire was dead. No amount of coaxing would bring it back, and Vilkas knew that there were no logs or coal to spare since Wilhelm had not yet paid Temba Wide-arms for the service. There was no shiver in Myrna's soft breaths, yet a plume of white hung in the air after each one. Fully dressed or not, she was cold, and Vilkas had to do something about it or he would never rest easy.

The first problem was her boot. Myrna had managed to unbuckle it herself, but not remove it. In a careful series of gentle tugs Vilkas slid the soaking wet leather from her foot, taking with it her socks and footwraps. He held his breath all the while, watching her face intently for a reaction. Thankfully Myrna did not wake, nor did she even stir, allowing him to tuck her and her stray limbs under the blanket that he stripped from his own bed. Stretching out on his mattress Vilkas could not prevent the small smile that came to his lips. Whatever state their friendship was in now, at least for tonight the Harbinger was safe, and the Gods themselves could not make him leave her side unless she wished him to.

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><p>Myrna woke some time around mid-morning, her sleep a refuge from the ache that gnawed at all of her muscles since her descent on the mountain path. While she had been correct in her assumption that the climb down would be easier than it had going up, it had still been tough, and she had not counted on travelling through a blizzard. For a couple of hours she had been forced to cling the side of the rock face, holding on with her fingertips as she battled against the freezing gales, making progress inch by inch through the ice and snow. Many times she had almost given up – the temptation to succumb to her exhaustion ever present, but something made her press on, to keep putting one foot in front of the other no matter how much her body protested. <em>Hi los Sahlo, <em>Mirmulnir repeated, his poisonous words hissing into her ear each time she stopped. _You are weak_. His attempts to make her doubt herself only served to spur Myrna on, determined to prove the dragon and herself wrong. She might be weak, but she would not be beaten. Especially not by the weather.

Ignoring her pain she sat up, rubbing the remains of sleep from her eyes. Compared to the stone slab that had served as her bed in the monastery the straw mattress may as well have been goosedown, giving her the best night's sleep she had had in weeks. She had slept far longer than she had meant to, and now she was ravenous with hunger.

"Good morning," said a deep voice from across the room. Still only half-awake Myrna jumped, embarrassed when she remembered too late that Vilkas was sharing a room with her.

"Morning," she replied distractedly, catching sight of the plate of food on top of the dresser.

"That's yours," Vilkas confirmed, watching over the top of his book as the Harbinger tucked in eagerly. Venison and cheese made for a strange breakfast, but Myrna looked as though she needed it. A night's rest had done her good, she looked less like a warmed up corpse than she had the night before and her bruises had faded a little, though the sight of them still concerned him greatly. His own sleep had been restless and fitful; he seemed to wake almost every half hour, checking Myrna's bed to make sure she was still there and that she had not left the inn without him. He had not missed the way Myrna's bruised cheeks had reddened when he spoke to her, nor her unusual silence as she ate her food. Just as he had suspected and feared – she was clearly uncomfortable in his presence now. Vilkas could only hope that somehow he would be able set things right.

When she had finished Myrna set her plate down, closing her eyes and breathing steadily. Having eaten nothing but dry fish and beans for days even this meagre breakfast seemed like a lavish feast, and now her stomach felt as if it had been stretched to uncomfortable fullness. Reaching for the pitcher on the dresser she poured herself a cup of water, taking long slow draughts, the cold drink refreshing to her dry mouth and throat.

Vilkas gave up trying to read any further. He was just looking at the words upon the page, not acknowledging or absorbing their meanings. He could bear the silence no longer, sure his heart was beating so loud and so fast that Myrna must be able to hear it herself. If his regard for her was to be met with rejection, he wanted it over with sooner rather than later.

"You came back earlier than I had anticipated," he said, his words seeming terribly loud and strange to his own ears.

At last the Harbinger met his eye, though only for a fleeting moment. "Seven days, you said. I believe I was gone six and a half? I didn't think you'd appreciate another trip up the mountain, especially in a snowstorm."

Her smile was a confirmation of her attempt at humour, strained though it was. Vilkas mentally scrabbled for words to force the conversation to continue, sensing that if silence fell again it would feel even worse than before. "You need not have hurried on my account," he replied, hoping his tone had not come across as too serious. "How did you fare in your studies? Did you learn everything you needed to?"

Myrna's eyes stayed fixed upon the floor. "I think so," she said, her fingers tracing the cut on her swollen lip absently. "There is much more to learn, but I think I understand much more about Thu'um than I did before. Mediation and study can only take me so far... The rest depends on practise."

There was another pause. Vilkas swallowed against the lump that had formed in his throat. He had a sneaking suspicion that it was through this 'practise' that Myrna had sustained her various injuries. Just what trials had the Greybeards subjected her to that would leave her in such a state? It was just as well he hadn't needed to return to the monastery himself... he would have had a few choice words for the Masters of the Voice if he had arrived in time to witness any of it.

Myrna was used to Vilkas' silences, had never paid them any mind before, but as the seconds passed by she felt more and more apprehensive. The issue of the farewell kiss and what it meant hung between them like a grim spectre, neither of them wishing to approach the tomb of the thorny subject. As usual it was impossible to tell what was going through Vilkas' mind, his silver eyes dark and brooding whenever they met hers. She wanted him to say something... _anything... _but at the same time she was terrified as to what he might say. By now she was worrying at the cut on the lip so much it was liable to bleed again. She had to say something.

"Vilkas..." she began quietly. His eyes snapped to hers in an instant and she felt herself blushing red. "Do we, uh, need to talk?"

At once Vilkas felt as though he had all the air knocked out of him. His heart felt suddenly heavy, a sick feeling creeping into the pit of his stomach. Gods and Daedra... what should he say? He had never been a man that was ever lost for words, his brain scrabbled for an answer but nothing would come. Myrna was looking at him expectantly, she needed and _deserved_ a response, and here he was gawping at her like a slackwit.

"What happened on the mountain..." he said, trying his best to keep his voice even, "... when I -" he paused again, unable to say it. A deep breath. "I'm sorry. I should never have... I don't know what came over me."

He couldn't bear to look at her as he said the last, rubbing his hand across his face in exasperation. That had been awful. In silence Vilkas cursed Lady Mara and all of the Divines in turn – if they had any mercy at all they would strike him down now and be done with it. For her part Myrna had no idea what to make of what he had said. She had never heard Vilkas stammer before, and neither had she seen him so out of sorts. The Vilkas she knew was aloof, stoic; to see him struggling to reign in his emotions like this made her feel extremely uncomfortable, as if a rug had been pulled from her feet.

"I accept your apology," she said after a moment. "I have to say, what you did confused me... and I can't say I fully understand what it means. If you have... feelings for me or -" Vilkas removed his hand from his eyes, his answer written all over his face. His silver eyes were wide, guilty, the mask he had hidden behind for so long falling away at last. Suddenly Myrna was trembling, her chest tight... Though she cared for Vilkas, more deeply now than she ever had, the affection she felt for him was of a shield-sister and nothing more. She grieved a little for the warrior, knowing all too well the pain of loving someone who did not love her in return. It was not something she had ever wished to inflict upon another.

Myrna looked down at her hands, taking a deep and steadying breath before going on. "I... I can't get into anything like that at the moment, Vilkas. I can barely think as it is, there's so much I need to do, so much relying on me..."

Vilkas sat up then, feeling the guilt twist like a knife in his guts. This was precisely what he had feared. "You do not need to explain," he said, watching as she reached for her amulet of Talos and began turning it over between her fingers. "I understand. I should never have put this on you as well. It was selfish of me."

Myrna continued toying with her talisman, keeping her eyes low. "I hope this will not change things between us. The Greybeards charged me with another task before I left them, another pilgrimage I must complete to be formally recognised as the Dragonborn. If you no longer wish to accompany me I understand, but... _Gods_, I need someone. I don't think I can do this on my own."

At last she looked up at him, the rising sunlight highlighting the bruises and scratches across her face. Her eyes were wide, full of sadness beneath her dark lashes, a sight Vilkas had never wished to be the cause of. His heart was sinking, aching, not from the fact that she had rebuffed him but that she could even think that he would part from her now.

"You are not on your own," he stated, his smile reassuring. "You are a Companion. For as long as you need it, my sword is yours."

Myrna's face broke into a wide smile of her own, eclipsing the bruises at once. This was a moment in which up until week ago she might have hugged him, and as much as Vilkas longed to feel her in his arms again just seeing her smile at him like that was enough. Despite everything the Harbinger still wanted him to stand by her side, to be her shield-brother against whatever she was to face in the coming storm. With the Divines as his witness Vilkas swore a wordless oath that he would never let her down again.

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><p><strong>AN: I'm sorry the reunion probably wasn't what people were hoping! I promise you something _will_ happen, when the time is right. It'll be worth the wait I swear! ;) xx**


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N: Hello again possums. Sorry for the delay again, as predicted college and work are kicking my shapely behind into touch at the moment. As always thank you for your kind words and reviews, I appreciate every single one of you xx**

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><p>They left as soon as they had packed their things, which took longer than it should have since Myrna had to search the floor for the many items that had fallen out of her pack when she dropped it. Vilkas watched with amazement as she crammed potion bottles, books, and packages of cured meat (still untouched) into the little bag, which was full even before she stuffed the grey robe inside. Lastly she picked up a roll of parchment, passing it to Vilkas for his inspection. It was a map, with a black ink marker indicating their next destination: the ruins of Ustengrav.<p>

As the founder of the Greybeards and most powerful of the mortal Tongues, the legend of Jurgen Windcaller was known to all Nords throughout Skyrim. Myrna was now to enter his tomb and retrieve an artefact for the Greybeards – a horn once belonging to the great man himself. Vilkas did not see the need for such a test; surely Myrna had proved herself to be truly Dragonborn during her training at the monastery. He did not raise the issue with her, however. Myrna was determined to fetch the horn and he was not about to stand in her way.

Taking possession of the map Vilkas plotted their route for them. They would head first to Morthal, stock up on supplies in the town then make their way across the marshes to the tomb. Myrna seemed happy enough with that arrangement, though she had balked at the suggestion that they should make a stop in Whiterun as they passed by. Vilkas thought they should return to Jorrvaskr, to let their fellow Circle members in on the fact that their Harbinger was also the legendary Dragonborn. Myrna was not ready to have her secret known just yet, and besides, she had been idle in her duties for long enough as it was.

Wilhelm had been sorry to see them go. In fact the barkeep had been looking pretty sorry for himself altogether; a long night of drinking having taken its toll. He thanked Vilkas again for his help in dealing with Tomas, going so far as to refuse the coin Myrna offered for their bed and board by way of payment for his assistance. He shook their hands firmly, and as a parting gift gave them each a small venison pie made with the leftover meat from the buck Vilkas had killed. Since their supply of ration biscuits had run out they were both very grateful, making promises to return to the Vilemyr some day if their business ever brought them back to Ivarstead.

The storm had left the village coated in a blanket of deep snow, already slushy and starting to melt as the afternoon sun climbed higher in the sky. In spite of the snow the villagers were out in force tending their land, doing what they could to save their crops from total ruin. Instead of merely staring at the strangers as they passed by, this time calls of "Hail Companions!" greeted them from all directions, some of the village folk even going so far as to address Vilkas by name. Vilkas merely nodded at the myriad of smiling faces, his long strides clearing a path in the snow for Myrna to follow. Myrna was not sure what had happened in the time she had been away that had made Vilkas so popular with the people of Ivarstead, but she resolved that she would find out someday.

Once out of the village they retraced their steps on the path towards Whiterun, walking in the shadow of the great mountain as it loomed overhead, its summit shrouded as ever by thick white clouds. Neither of them spoke as they walked, the atmosphere between them strained by sombre silence and broken only by the song of birds and the rustle of wind in the trees. Vilkas longed to have the old Myrna back, the Myrna who would find conversation even in the banal, who would whistle merrily as she trod the path alongside him. The Harbinger kept up with the pace he set without trouble from her injuries, her eyes fixed determinedly ahead and ever on the horizon. Vilkas got the distinct impression she was trying not to look at him, and considering recent events he did not much blame her for it.

The last of the snow had melted by the time they reached the Valtheim Towers. The bandits there had either been caught or moved on, and with nothing to hinder their progress Whiterun was soon before them. At a fork in the road they turned north, heading towards Whitewatch Tower. It felt strange not to be going home to Jorrvaskr; to pass by the odd shape of the upturned ship's hull that served as a roof as it stood out against the others visible beyond the Whiterun city walls. Vilkas wondered how the whelps were faring under the guidance of Aela and his brother, and how Torvar's hunting expedition with the new bloods had gone. An image of Jovan trying to take on a bear single-handedly crossed his mind, and for a moment he thought to make mention of it to Myrna before deciding against it. If the Harbinger wanted to make conversation with him then she would have done so by now. Instead she remained silent beneath her hood, seemingly deep in thought. Vilkas sighed inwardly. It promised to be a long, quiet, uncomfortable walk to Morthal, until a sudden rumbling behind them made them both turn around. A cart approached them at tremendous speed, forcing them to leap to the side of the road as the driver struggled to control the unruly horse.

"For Mara's sake Orrick, get that animal reigned in," the driver's wife chided as the horse, a brown mare, frothed and reared on her bridle in temper.

"I'm trying, woman!" the man called Orrick yelled, the front of the wagon rising up and threatening to tip each time the horse reared. Barrels and sacks slid off the back, scattering the road with fruits and vegetables before he could calm the enraged beast. "There now," Orrick soothed, finally daring to loosen his grip on the reigns as the horse found comfort in munching the apples that had rolled beneath her feet. His attention turned to the Companions, giving them an apologetic grin as they dusted themselves off. "Sorry about that, friends, didn't hurt you did we?"

Noting the look on Vilkas' face, Myrna thought it best if she answered before he did. "Not at all, sera. That's a spirited animal you've got there."

"Spirited?!" the wife repeated incredulously, "She's bloody _wild _is what she is. Told him not to pay for that one, she was too cheap, had to be something wrong. Obviously she was never broken in properly."

"Ah she's fine," her husband replied, hopping down from the cart to check the horse's shoes. His manner suggested this was an argument they had had many times before. The wife huffed and muttered something barely audible to herself, but there was one word that caught Myrna's attention.

"You're heading to Solitude?" she asked, approaching the man as he began gathering up what he could of his fallen produce.

"Aye," Orrick replied, glancing up at her from his work. Myrna fixed him with her most charming smile, hoping that it would be effective enough with her swollen lip.

"Seeing as you almost ran us over, I don't suppose you'd consider giving my shield-brother and I a ride?" she asked sweetly. "Only as far as far as Morthal, mind."

Rubbing his hand through his stubby grey beard Orrick considered, looking first to her then to Vilkas and finally to his wife, who did not bother to disguise her disapproving glare. "Aye, why not?" he said, smirking insolently at the woman's obvious irritation. "Give me a hand with these barrels and I'll take you wherever you like."

With that Myrna turned to Vilkas with a triumphant grin, a hint of a sparkle in her lovely brown eyes. It was the first time she had looked at him properly for hours, and the sight of her smile caused his heart to leap up to his throat. Before he could smile back she had already set to work, gathering up the errant fruit that lay scattered on the road while the driver argued with his wife about whether or not this diversion would make them late. Vilkas watched her out of the corner of his eye as he took the job of returning the heavy barrels to the back of the vehicle. He had to hand it to her; Myrna definitely had a way with people – if it had been down to him he would have given Orrick a piece of his mind for having almost run them down, after which the man would not have been at all likely to offer them a lift. This would save them the best part of a day's travel, and even if they were forced to endure the driver and his wife bickering all of the way it would be worth it.

The man rolled the last barrel over the ground towards Vilkas, giving a low whistle to indicate his awe as the warrior heaved it into the wagon with very little effort. "You're a big lad," he said, looking him up and down appraisingly. "That sword you got there, that's Skyforge steel, ain't it?" Vilkas nodded, and Orrick's attention fell to his armour, the famous wolf's head insignia on the breastplate answering the rest of the man's questions for him.

"Ha! You was wrong, Bóthildr," he shouted to his wife. "They're not criminals, they're Companions!"

Bóthildr shot him a look that exhibited how little she cared about this new revelation, glaring down her beaky nose as Myrna shouldered the last of a sack filled with carrots. The brown mare whinnied, seizing the Harbinger's cloak in her teeth and pulling her backwards, causing Myrna's hood to fall as a few of the orange vegetables tumbled back to the ground. As the horse polished off her ill-gotten prizes Myrna laughed aloud, patting the animal on the back before joining Vilkas at the back of the cart. He offered her a hand, and after a moment of hesitation she took it, allowing him to pull her aboard. She seated herself on a wooden crate across from him, trying and failing to avoid his gaze as Orrick replaced himself in the driver's seat next to his wife.

"They're armed to the teeth, 'Hild," he said, grinning as he took the reigns from her once more. "No brigands are gonna even think about stopping us now, not with this pair on board."

The woman sneered, turning in her seat to stare hard at Myrna. "What happened to your face?" she demanded, her eyes shifting to Vilkas accusingly.

It was Orrick who spared his wife from Vilkas' scathing reply. "Divines have mercy woman, what sort of a question is that?! To think you've been lecturin' me on mindin' my manners... you best watch your tongue, or the nice young lady might ask you what's wrong with your face next." He shot a wink at Myrna, who stifled her laugh with the back of her gloved hand as Bóthildr huffed indignantly at her husband's sudden nerve. With a pull of the reigns they set off on the road once more, the well-fed horse trotting along merrily and setting a brisk but comfortable pace.

Vilkas watched as the Harbinger rummaged in her pack and drew out a small health potion, which she uncorked and sipped as the cart bumped and rattled on the uneven highway. With her hood down the sun bathed her face, the golden light diminishing the contrast of the bruises on her fair skin while the potion did its work, easing her aches and bringing a whisper of colour back to her pale cheeks. The tangles had been brushed out of her hair, which now fell over her shoulder in a single thick braid, exposing her slender neck to the sunlight's caresses. Vilkas was relieved to see the bruises left by the Orsimer giant's hands were long gone – the only thing around her neck now was the chain of her amulet of Talos, the pendant concealed somewhere beneath the leather of her cuirass.

When she caught his eye Myrna smiled, a shy little smile before she quickly looked away again. Vilkas assumed correctly that she was avoiding making lengthy eye contact with him, lest her attention lend false hope to his affection. Against his better judgement he had done what his heart had been begging him to do for so long - declaring his love for the Harbinger, letting his actions speak for him where his words had failed. That she had then turned him down came as no surprise, yet the pain of it had been nothing like the soul-crushing agony he had imagined. Though obviously disappointed, his heart finally felt free, relieved of the burden of keeping his feelings secret from the beautiful woman sitting before him. She did not hate him for it, which had been the outcome he had feared above all others. Her coolness towards him now would not put out the fire she had kindled within him. He was hers, in whatever capacity she wished, content to stand at her side as her shield-brother if he could not be her lover. What Vilkas longed for most was for her to be normal with him again, for her to laugh and smile and poke fun at him the way she had before. Perhaps in time that would happen, but for now Vilkas respectfully averted his eyes from her face and concentrated on the passing scenery instead.

Hours passed in relative boredom. The sun though pleasant was strangely dull compared to Skyrim's usual changeable weather, not even a cloud able to break the monotony of the vast blue skies above. Still Myrna enjoyed the warmth, able to catch an hour or two of sleep with her head resting upon the side of the cart. That she could sleep at all seemed like a miracle to Vilkas; the journey was anything but smooth, and neither was it quiet once Orrick and his wife resumed their incessant and petty arguing over anything they could think of. He reached into his pack and withdrew a book – a battered copy of Songs of the Return, hoping that by reading he could block them out and lose himself in the legends of Ysgramor. It worked for a short while, until the cart hit a bump in the road and shuddered, the impact causing a barrel to topple over with a loud crash. Orrick shouted an apology to which Vilkas scowled but said nothing, allowing Bóthildr to give her lengthy opinion on her husband's poor driving skills as her sentiments closely matched his own. He glanced over his book to check on Myrna, who was somehow still asleep, her amulet of Talos clutched tightly in her hand as she dreamed.

Something about that amulet suddenly piqued Vilkas' curiosity. Though Tiber Septim had been Dragonborn himself, he did not think Myrna's attachment to the item was entirely rooted in religious devotion. Many times he had seen her threading the chain between her fingers, deep in thought, a far-away look in her strange brown eyes. That amulet had been given to her by someone... someone dear to her heart, the memory of whom seemed to give her strength in her moments of weakness. Vilkas shifted as jealousy needled him, the imagined face of Myrna's mystery love appearing in his mind, the Stormcloak soldier's handsome features taunting him in a gloating smile. If not a soldier, then there must be another man somewhere. Myrna was a beautiful woman, and women had needs just as much as men did. Vilkas thought the man who held her heart was a fool indeed to have ever left her side, no matter what the circumstances might be. If he thought he there was even the slightest chance he could make her happy, Vilkas knew he would fight until his very last breath to do whatever it took.

The cart jerked to a sudden stop as Orrick pulled up the reigns, the brown mare stamping and tossing her head indignantly at being forced to halt when she had just begun enjoying stretching her legs. It took Vilkas a while to realise where they were, his attention so ensnared by his book and the adventures of the crew of the Krilot Lok that he had not noticed the mists surrounding them, indicating that they had arrived in Hjaalmarch some time ago. Swamp mist swallowed the best of the evening sunlight, giving the air a greyish tint, the strange songs of the bog creatures echoing weirdly all around them.

Myrna awoke finally, shaken from sleep by the juddering of the wheels. She yawned and stretched, blinking at their surroundings, for a few moments unsure if she was truly awake as the dreamlike mists swirled about them. The sight of Vilkas before her reminded her where she was, of their quest, and forgetting herself she smiled sleepily at him as he stowed his book in his pack.

"The town of Morthal, such as it is," Orrick announced, turning in his seat. It was difficult to see him through the fog, but Myrna guessed that beneath his bristly beard the man was smiling.

"Much obliged," she returned brightly, hopping down from the cart. The ground beneath her feet was wet and muddy; she might have slipped if she had not caught herself at the last second. Vilkas stepped down more carefully, apparently already aware of the change in the road surface. "My thanks to you as well, Bóthildr. I hope the rest of your journey to Solitude is a safe one."

The woman did not reply, though Myrna heard her mutter something about 'missing the market'. Orrick took up the horse's reigns, and after a few moments of uncertainty the cart's wheels turned in the mud and they were moving again. Orrick's cry of "Well met, Companions!" disappeared with them into the mist.

Myrna stared out into the fog, unable to see anything but the space ten feet around them where some strange plants nestled against the sides of the road. The rest was a thick grey mass, interspersed with dim lights that might have been torches but could as easily have been wisps. Trying to tell the difference was straining her tired eyes. Hesitantly she peered up at Vilkas, hoping that he had a better idea of where they were than she did.

"Er, where is Morthal?" she asked sheepishly.

"There," he replied, pointing at a collection of faint lights nearby as if it should have been obvious.

Myrna swallowed. "Aha. What's it like there?"

"Backwards," he said honestly, shouldering his pack. "Do you need any supplies while we're here?"

"Not particularly," she said, reaching backwards to check her quiver. "I have enough arrows, I think."

"Shall we go then?"

"Yes, let's get this over with." Her hand went to her amulet on instinct as she thought for a moment. "Ustengrav is north...east from here, which would be... that way."

"That way," Vilkas corrected, trying not to laugh at the confusion on her face.

"Really?" Myrna stared in the direction he was pointed, then towards the sun, a fuzzy glowing orb sinking lower in the sky through the mist above. "How long was I asleep?"

"Long enough," he answered. "You missed a lot of squabbling." His tight-lipped smile died as he looked down at her. "Are you sure you want to do this today, Myrna? Morthal has an inn, if you need to rest while."

"I can rest when I'm dead," she replied, far too flippantly for either of their liking. The gravity of her situation came flooding back to her, an unwelcome reminder that her death might come to her far sooner than she had once believed. "Sorry," she said quietly. "But I need to do this. Today. I can't waste any more time."

Vilkas set his jaw and nodded. "As you wish. Let's go."

Myrna started out in the direction Vilkas had pointed, taking two steps off the path before finding herself ankle deep in sticky, muddy water.

"On second thoughts, perhaps you should lead the way," she said sourly, watching a fat toad crawl nonchalantly over the toe of her sunken boot.


	22. Chapter 22

**A/N: It will probably be a while before my next update as I have a 5000 word college project to do. It's funny how I can easily write 5000 words of fanfiction in a day when I've a mind to but somehow writing the same about about accounting systems doesn't hold the same allure for me. As always thank you to followers and reviewers and all you lovely people quietly reading along despite my patchy update record. You guys are the best.**

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><p>They ended up leading each other, walking together through the thick fog, not daring to move more than six feet apart in case they lost sight of one another. They had long given up trying to find any solid ground to walk upon, picking their way through the marshes as best they could, ducking under the branches of gnarled trees and avoiding the noxious fumes of the strange plants that surrounded the bogs. Hjaalmarch was an alien place, with creatures and plants the likes of which Myrna had never seen before, though there were a few she recognised. Deathbell flourished here, the lush purple flowers about the only bright colour the marshland afforded. The rest of the foliage was grey, or muddy brown, or greenish brown and stinking. Myrna pulled her hood up around her face, trying to block out some of the swamp gases that mingled with the air. The sooner they reached Ustengrav the better.<p>

Finding the ruin was proving difficult. The sun had set and night had drawn in, which would not have been such a problem had the stars not been masked by the heavy mist overhead. Without the constellations to navigate by, they could only hope that they were still travelling in the right direction. The marshes were even weirder in the dark, riddled with mudcrabs that could not be seen, the clicking of their pincers the only thing that gave away where the creatures had buried themselves in the sludge. The few crabs brave enough to attempt attacking the travellers were dispatched by a series of kicks and stamps, for slashing blindly with their weapons was more likely to cause harm to themselves than anything else. Thankfully the kicking seemed to work, and once a few crabs had met their doom in this way the others left them well alone.

At last there was a sign of civilisation. A light shone in the distance, the orange glow indicating that it was most likely a fire and not a wisp. Even so they were cautious, crossing the last few yards across the fens as quietly as they could, trying not to splash as the water rose to almost halfway up Myrna's boots. They were almost on dry land when Myrna's feet stuck in the mud, and when Vilkas turned to find she was no longer follow him panic clutched him by the throat. Doubling back he soon found her, her feet sinking further in the more she struggled against the shifting silt and muck. The quagmires of Hjaalmarch had claimed the lives of many a traveller in this way; and with their arms about each other's shoulders Vilkas pulled her out with one mighty heave, staggering and falling backwards as Myrna came free from the bog with a slurping squelch. A week ago they might have laughed at becoming so entangled. Now they spluttered whispered apologies, covering one another in mud in their hurry to right themselves and reclaim what little was left of their dignity.

The ground became harder from then on, and thus easier to walk upon. The mists thinned as they moved away from the marshland and at last they could see again, the silvery light from the twin moons above casting long shadows as it fell upon the scattered pine trees and tufts of grass that littered the rocky earth. The glow up ahead was certainly a fire, now that they were closer a pillar of smoke could be seen climbing high into the cloudless sky. Keeping low the Companions crept forward, using whatever cover there was to get closer to the ruins. If there was a fire, then there was probably a camp, and the sort of people that camped outside burial grounds were generally not the sort of people you would want to encounter unawares on a dark night.

A yell and a flash from up ahead were the first signs of trouble. Vilkas caught Myrna's eye and she nodded, both of them drawing their weapons and hurrying towards the camp. A standing stone provided a suitable vantage point for them to take stock of the scene unfolding before them. Enough trouble had befallen them already, and they were both mindful of charging into a situation without knowing what they were facing.

A mage was surrounded by bandits, throwing out feeble destruction spells as the brutes closed in upon her, flashes of flames and ice spikes shooting like javelins from her outstretched hands while she struggled frantically for an escape. She was outnumbered four to one, three large men advancing on her with weapons drawn, laughing and goading her as the woman in their party hung back, firing arrows that just fell short and stuck in the ground where the mage had been but a second before. They were taunting her, deliberately terrorizing her, knowing her cloth robes would not be able to protect her from their blades once her magicka ran out. And it would, soon. Tripping over her long black garment the mage fell with a feeble cry, rolling over to face her attackers, the last of her magic spent on a shock spell that crackled into the air and died soon after, without so much as grazing her tormentors. Their laughter rang out over the clearing, closing the gap between them and their quarry in scarcely more than a few steps. The mage was helpless. And yet...

Myrna put her hand on Vilkas' arm, halting him from rushing out to the woman's aid. He raised a quizzical eyebrow at her intervention, but stayed his hand regardless. There was something in the air that was troubling Myrna. Considering what little she knew about magicka herself, there was something about the woman's spells that seemed strange to her - seemed wrong somehow. And her robes were definitely not those worn by the students of Winterhold College.

Her concerns were not unfounded. An almighty explosion shook the earth around them, sending stones and splinters of rocks scattering in all directions as a blinding light burst from where the mage had been lying prone a scant few seconds before. Myrna and Vilkas crouched behind the standing stone, Vilkas using his much larger body to protect the Harbinger from the blast. When the quaking stopped and the dust cleared they chanced a look, both of them holding their breath at the sickening spectacle before them.

The tables had been turned, that was for sure. All three of the closest bandits had been killed in the violent eruption of magic. Their broken bodies had been thrown several yards from where the mage now stood, dusting off her robes in a smoking black crater of her own making. Only the female bandit remained, desperately searching for the bow she had lost along with her footing, reaching instead for the knife in her boot as the mage began to approach her. Magicka pulsed from the mage's fingers and flew to the bodies around her, tendrils of blue light snaking around them, raising the corpses as if their limbs were attached to invisible strings. The zombies turned upon their former comrade, drawing their swords and staggering towards her as unseeing, unfeeling puppets of the woman they had intended to murder. It might have been considered poetic justice, if it had not been quite so sick.

The necromancer's laugh was high and feverish, urging the staggering horrors forward as the bandit woman crawled back, holding her small knife aloft for all the good it would do. The bandit wailed, screamed, pleaded with the mage to spare her, to her dead fellows to recognise her, but of course they could not. They were almost upon her when the Companions made their move.

Myrna and Vilkas sprinted across the rocky clearing with blades flashing, both intending to rush the necromancer and put an end to her foul spells at the point of a sword. They were just a second too late, their weapons cleaving nothing but empty air as the Altmer woman suddenly evaporated, reappearing in a flash of purple flames ten yards behind them. No longer feigning ineptitude, destruction spells flew from the mage's golden fingers, firebolts and lightening strikes flying at her new attackers in quick succession. The zombies joined the fray, bound in death to protect the woman who had summoned them. Their clumsy slashes were more hindrance than threat, diverting the warriors' attention from the mage as her spells tore through the air all around them. Killing blows did not affect the zombies, for men cannot die twice; Vilkas roared his frustration to the stars when the zombie before him blocked his sword despite the loss of his head. Myrna was losing her temper as well, battling with the temptation to blast the ghouls away with a Shout. She parried a strike from one dead man, dodging round another, using him as a shield against a fireball that came hurtling towards her from the right. She remembered her lessons, patience and calm, clearing her mind. She did not need Thu'um for this.

Out of the corner of her eye Myrna noticed a spark of purple and in an instant she was running towards it, launching herself upon the Altmer mage in the very instant she appeared from the Void. It had the desired effect. Having not expected such a primitive and crude assault the necromancer was knocked clean off her feet, the spell on her lips dying when the pommel of Myrna's sword smashed into her nose and jaw. Before the elf could even scream Myrna brought her axe down upon her neck, the blade severing her spine with a crunch of bone and a spray of hot blood on her face and armour. The bandits surrounding Vilkas fell at once, the necromancer's magic dying as she did, leaving him stood among the bodies with his sword raised high. He was vaguely aware of a stinging sensation on his cheek, the acrid smell of burnt flesh and hair, but he paid it no mind, his eyes frantically searching for Myrna in the semi-darkness. At last he spotted her standing over the dead mage, wiping the blood from her blades on the woman's robes. He only allowed himself to relax once she was walking towards him and he could be sure that she was unhurt.

"Your face..." she said as she neared him, her own features full of concern beneath the mingled stains of blood and warpaint. Myrna reached out towards his injured cheek, a hair's breadth away from touching him before she thought better of it and drew her fingers away.

"It's nothing," Vilkas replied, tearing himself away from looking upon her face. It wasn't nothing, it stung like the blazes, but he could not show weakness in front of her. Myrna stared hard at him, at the burn on his jaw, then with a click of her tongue she removed her pack, rummaging for something concealed in the jumble within. Before Vilkas could ask what she was about she withdrew a vial of red potion and held it out for him to take.

"It's not nothing," she said sternly, cutting off his protests before they began. "That's a magic burn, and dark magic besides. Take it from a Breton, you can't walk that one off." She thrust the potion into his hand and folded her arms across her chest. "Drink."

Vilkas could tell she would not take no for an answer. Reluctantly he uncorked the bottle, hiding his amused smile behind the glass as he took a lengthy swig. It tasted foul, like flowers and bitter herbs; like most Nords Vilkas avoided potions wherever possible yet in seconds he could understand their merits. His flesh tingled as it mended itself, the pain diminishing until it was nothing but a faint feeling of coolness beneath his skin. Myrna took the vial from his fingers, unable to stifle her grin at his bemused expression.

"Nords..." she scoffed, returning her pack to her shoulder, the sight of her smile as much of a tonic to the warrior as the health potion had been. They headed away from the clearing and towards the hill where the female bandit lay stunned by the fireside. The camp was small, barely more than a few bedrolls under a shoddy wooden lean-to that had somehow withstood the necromancer's magical blast. Beyond it lay a burial mound, and ancient stone steps leading down into a ruin that could only be Ustengrav.

The woman was a wreck. Somewhere between sobbing and deranged laughter the young Imperial chewed on her fingernails, barely noticing Myrna even as she stood right in front of her. Vilkas joined the Harbinger on the hill, his presence inciting the woman to cringe and sob into her knees mournfully.

"She's cracked," he observed, his expression grim. "Hardly surprising, given what just occurred. What's to be done with her?"

Myrna looked around the camp site. Judging from the scorch marks upon the earth and the amount of litter it was clear someone had been camping here for quite some time. All the while the young Imperial's shoulders shook as she cried. "Shut your noise," Myrna spat at the woman, her fingers tracing the weapons sheathed at her hips. Traumatised she might well be, but the woman was a bandit and likely a murderer – kind words were wasted on the likes of her.

With effort the woman halted her sobbing, taking gulping breaths instead as she looked up at the warriors, her eyes shiny with tears. She was very young, barely twenty by Myrna's reckoning. "Are... are you gonna kill me?" she whimpered, speech returning to her at last.

"That depends on your honesty now," Myrna replied glaring down at her, dark eyes reflected in the firelight. She drew her sword, allowing the Imperial to get a good look at it before using the blade to gesture towards the ruins. "Are there more of you inside?"

For all her faults, the girl knew better than to lie. "Aye, some. Six maybe? There's more of her sort though..." she pointed at the body of the Altmer mage across the grass.

"The mages attacked your camp?" Vilkas asked incredulously.

The woman shook her head and avoided his gaze, clearly frightened of the large man. "No, we attacked them," she swallowed another sob, "Tevis thought we could take them out easy, said a bunch of mages would be no match for us... We didn't know it was black magic they were doing down there... Oh Gods... I bet they're all dead now... or..." She trailed off, eyes upon the corpses of the three men the necromancer had brought back from death.

The girl had clearly given them all the information she had to barter with. Myrna turned to Vilkas, his nod answering her unspoken question. She crouched down level with the woman, ensuring she had her complete attention. "If your friends are not yet dead, they soon will be," she assured, "Unless you wish to join them you should get out of here. Yes, we're letting you go but be warned, if either of us ever catches you again like this you'll wish we had killed you tonight. Do I make myself clear?"

The young woman nodded, not even taking the time to gather her weapons in fear of angering the Companions any further. She sprinted away across the field like a thing possessed and without so much as a backwards glance. Vilkas watched her for a moment. If it were up to him he would probably not have been as lenient; although they had not witnessed it this night, it was entirely likely the girl was a killer, as her comrades undoubtedly were. However, to strike her down while she was unarmed and helpless would not have been honourable, and they did not have the time to hand her in to the authorities. The fate of her fellows had rendered the young woman a gibbering, emotional mess, and it was lucky for her the Harbinger was merciful. In her stead Vilkas knew Kodlak would have also let the girl go, and he wondered at how proud his mentor would have been if he could see Myrna now.

Myrna looked towards the ruins, deep in thought. Outwardly they looked as though they had not been disturbed for many a year. The stones were old and weathered by the ages, their shadows bouncing over them from the light of the camp fire above. "What do you make of all this?" she asked Vilkas as he drew level with her.

His expression was grim. "It's hard to say. Bandits and simple grave-robbers I can handle, but I don't like the thought of what business necromancers might have within a tomb."

"Nor I," Myrna shuddered. "I suppose it's too much to hope that they might have finished each other off?"

"Possible," he allowed grudgingly, "but the Divines are rarely so generous."

Myrna gave a small hum that might have been the beginnings of a laugh if her mood had been lighter. Nothing could ever be simple, there was always some obstacle between her and her goal, and she could find little comfort in the fact that this time it was not one she had made for herself. Necromancers were powerful and dangerous – she was in no hurry to fight any more zombies and Vilkas had already almost lost half of his face to the Altmer mage's spells. If there were more like her inside the ruins, then finding the horn of Jurgen Windcaller was set to prove far more difficult than simply poking about the dust.

She swept aside the doubts and fears that began to manifest in her mind, sending Mirmulnir slinking back into his pit with them. She was the Dragonborn. If they were to walk into a nest of the foulest witches even their magic could not stand against her Thu'um. Honed by the Greybeards her Voice was stronger now, its mighty power concealed within her soul, and truthfully she could not wait for the next opportunity to release it. Patience was one of the lessons they had taught her, and though Myrna had been born with the soul of a Dovah she was still only human, and more than keen to see what she could do.

Not only did she have her Voice, but she had Vilkas. Since that day on the mountain they were not quite so easy in each other's company - not that their relationship had ever been overly comfortable... but on the battlefield they were the same as they had ever been. They did not even need words to communicate in combat; it was all so much easier, and Myrna felt eternally grateful that she had such a strong and capable warrior to fight by her side.


	23. Chapter 23

**A/N: Shh I'm not here. I'm doing my accountancy project I swear! *leaves tray of cookies and flees***

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><p>The air within the ruins was heavy with the sickly sweet smell of death, coupled with the faint aroma of scorched and burnt flesh. The dust of many ages swirled about them, the thick layer that coated the floor disturbed in places by what appeared to be the footprints of many. It was quiet. Too quiet for a place that ought to have been the scene of a bloody battle. Fearing an ambush, the Companions swapped their bows for blades again, creeping further into the tomb as stealthily as they were able. It was only in situations such as this that Vilkas regretted his choice of heavy armour; Myrna moved like a cat in her leathers, scarcely making a sound as she walked. He was forced to slow to a snail's pace, lest his steel breastplate rattle or clank with his steps and give away their position to whomever might be waiting for them.<p>

The first body they found was a bandit. Clad in iron and furs the grey-haired Nord's eyes were wide even in death, though it was not clear what the cause of his demise had been. Outwardly he seemed perfectly healthy - save for the fact that he was not breathing; the expression frozen upon his face one of pure shock and fear. After nudging him with her foot to make sure he was truly dead Myrna crouched to examine him. She could find nothing on his body except for a small scorch mark upon his breastplate, which was still warm to the touch. Upon closer inspection she found a slit in the metal, so thin it might have been made by a razor blade.

"Conjured weapons," she whispered, pointing out the subtle mark to Vilkas. "The wound is cauterised as it's made, so he didn't bleed out. The Thalmor use such magic. You don't think..."

"I think the elves have better things to do than lurk in ruins slaying bandits," Vilkas replied shrewdly. "Now the Civil War is over the Dominion has lost its foothold in Skyrim, they will need time to regroup and formulate new plans."

Myrna was not entirely convinced. She remembered her would-be execution, the cold eyes of the Altmer woman in Thalmor robes watching over the proceedings before the dragon interrupted them. Did the Thalmor know who she was? What she was?

"But suppose they knew I would be coming here... that necromancer we killed outside was an Altmer, suppose the Thalmor sent their agents to capture me, or..."

"If it is the Thalmor, then we will deal with them," said Vilkas. "Mer die just the same as men, it doesn't matter what sort of fancy robes they wear, nor does it matter what school of magic they use. A well-handled blade will trump a spell every time."

Myrna smirked a little at that – a typical response for a Nord to make, and not entirely true. The bandits at the camp had wielded swords, as had the one lying before them, and they had all met their doom at the hands of mages. On the other hand, the powerful Altmer mage had been ended by Myrna's own blade. She supposed whomever fought the smartest would win out; each side had their strengths and weaknesses, as it was in most things. Vilkas tested the weight of his sword in his hands, a sign that told Myrna he was anxious to continue to the fight if there was to be one. She rose to her feet once more, and together they went on to explore the catacombs.

Tunnels let into more tunnels, each one lined with alcoves set into the walls containing the long-dead remains of ancient Nords. They had a musty, earthy smell to them, wrapped head to toe in decaying linens and bandages, most with their faces covered except the few who gazed at the stones above through eyeless sockets. There were urns of varying sizes, ranging from the small and ornate to enormous clay vessels containing the ashes of many; of those too poor or deemed too unimportant to warrant a resting place of their own. It was a strange feeling being among so many corpses; heroes and great warriors of their own time, their names now all but forgotten. The torchlight danced through the twists and turns of the barrow, the shadows giving the bodies the illusion of movement as they lay in eternal slumber. Myrna eyed them warily. They might not have been tampered with by necromancers, but there was something about these dead men and women that made her flesh crawl.

Vilkas was unmoved by the strange atmosphere, the presence of the numerous dead seeming to give him little cause for worry. He led the way through the narrow corridor as it opened into a larger chamber, his sudden stop at the end of the passage causing Myrna to walk straight into him.

"Ysmir's beard..." he breathed, and Myrna was about to apologise until she realised it was not she that had provoked his sudden exclamation. In the chamber were a myriad of bodies, both ancient and fresh, necromancers and bandits alike scattered amid the dessicated remains of the honoured dead. Blood pooled around them, seeping into the dusty floor, joining one corpse to another in a viscous sea of red. Tentatively the Companions edged out of the passageway, noting yet more bodies slumped against the wall behind them. Every inch of the room was spattered with blood, or the hissing remnants of fire and ice spells. This had been the scene of a brutal fight, and one from which neither side had emerged victorious.

It was the old corpses that caused Myrna the most distress. Rather than being safely stowed in alcoves as the dead in the catacombs had been, or in the coffins at the side of the room, the mummified corpses lay in the centre of the chamber, bathed in the blood of the recently deceased. Fearful and curious, the Harbinger nudged one of them with the point of her sword, just as a child might poke a caterpillar with a stick, testing the body for movement. Mercifully it remained still, its leathery skin yielding to her blade and crumbling away to expose dusty bones beneath.

"I expect the necromancers raised them," Vilkas suggested, guessing the question that was troubling her. Myrna stared down at the body at her feet, chewing her sore lip in thought.

"Can they do that, when they've been dead for so long?"

"Who knows what their sort can do?" he replied testily, stepping over a necromancer and his surrounding pool of blood and entrails. "We should move on, there's nothing to be gained by lingering here."

Myrna nodded, glad he was taking charge. The thought of what had happened here had shaken her, and she was glad she had not been around to witness it, whatever it was. Edging round the sides of the room to avoid the bodies and blood she followed Vilkas into another narrow tunnel leading to a flight of steps which would then take them into the bowels of the ruins. No bloody footprints preceded them. Unless the mages had somehow achieved the power of flight Myrna thought it safe to assume none had escaped the carnage of the previous room.

A stone door let to yet more steps and winding tunnels, gradually becoming wider until they could walk two abreast and into a room that looked looked much like a dining hall. A great stone table lay in the centre, its surface covered in plates of food that had long since rotted. Only the bones of beast, fowl and fish remained upon the plates, the stones and seeds of fruit left as offerings for the men and women who had been buried here, sustenance for the spirits on their journey to Sovngarde. There was treasure here too, gold and jewels, and for once Myrna did not feel the urge to inspect them. These ruins were giving her a very bad feeling, a sense of dread squirming deep within her guts and chilling her blood in her veins. There was something else in the air besides dust and the stench of death. Deep and ancient magic was at work here; despite her inferior magicka Myrna could sense it resonating from the stones all around. Something protected the tomb... something quite unlike anything she had ever felt before.

A loud crash from behind made both of them jump. In unison they turned, instinctively drawing up their blades as a cloud of dust rose into the air. A standing sarcophagus was open, its stone cover falling discarded on the floor before it. Through the swirling fragments of rock dust and ash something emerged from within, something with ice-blue eyes that glowed as it began moving towards them.

"What in Oblivion...?"

"Draugr," Vilkas muttered, shifting his stance to defensive. Myrna did not have an opportunity to ask what a draugr was. The creature moved through the dust cloud, revealing itself as one of the leathery-skinned, preserved corpses from the alcoves. Its gait was stiff and awkward, but that did not detract from the fact that it was walking, its rusted and rotted armour clattering against bone as it took each staggering step. It looked around, fixing its glowing eyes upon the intruders that woken it and bashing its shield with its the relic it brandished as a weapon, opening that which over many eons had become a lipless, fleshless mouth.

"Aav Dinok!" the undead creature challenged. Its voice was gutteral, no more than a rattle from within its throat but Myrna understood the Dovah tongue at once. Join the dead.

It was an invitation neither of them had any intention of accepting. Both Myrna and Vilkas stood their ground, waiting as it came for them with axe held aloft. It was ten paces away when it stopped, drew back, and before Myrna could recognise its intention it Shouted. "Fus!" - just one word, but enough to send the Companions reeling across the room and into the stone table, falling amongst the detritus that remained of the banquet there. For a few seconds shock overcame them both. It was one thing to have witnessed the use of a Word of Power, and another to speak one, but to be on the receiving end of one was something neither of them had encountered before. Winded and slumped against the table Myrna was vaguely aware of laughter, the whispering of Mirmulnir, the stain within her soul. Sahlo, mal joor...

Anger flooded through her veins. In an instant she was on her feet again, tangled hair fallen loose from her braid. She met the draugr's eye, Dovah words falling from her mouth as if they had been hers all her life.

"Zu'u los Dovahkiin," came her own challenge, her golden sword pointed towards the thing's throat. "Dii Thu'um ken! Fus Ro Dah!"

The Greybeards had taught her well. The force of the Shout caught the dead thing square in the chest, smashing through the rotten shield as if it were made of parchment. Unable to brace itself the creature shot backwards, axe blade shattering as it hit the floor along with many of its bones. Myrna heard Vilkas coming up behind her but she was quicker; leaping over a fallen stone chair she thrust her sword into the thing's chest where its heart should be. The draugr let out a final snarl as the light left its eyes, the remnants of its soul escaping through the sockets of its skull and leaving it as hollow and empty as it ought to have been.

Vilkas hung back, watching Myrna as silence fell once more. The draugr's Shout had winded him, but it was nothing compared to the fury of the Harbinger's Thu'um. The monster had very nearly been torn to pieces, its limbs splayed out around it at awkward angles, and if Myrna had not finished it with her blade it certainly would not have been able to get up again. To look at her now you would think nothing had happened. Myrna dusted off her armour, the very image of calm and composure – the exact opposite of the way she had reacted the first time she had unleashed her Voice in front of him. That day she had seemed so small, so frightened of her ability. Now she looked every inch the hero, confident and beautiful, brave and strong – the sort of woman the legends spoke of.

"I suppose these things are what finished off the necromancers," Myrna said, looking down at the fallen creature. "What did you call it? A draugr?"

"Aye. Guardians of the crypts in the old tales. Never much believed in the stories myself, but then a lot of things have happened lately that once I would not have believed."

"Ha. I know that feeling," Myrna moved towards him, a wry smile on her face. Her cheeks were pink and flushed from the exhilaration of the Shout, of finally seeing what she was capable of. "We should get a move on. If there's more of these things in the ruins they could slow us down."

"Lead on then," Vilkas agreed, moving aside for her to pass. The colour of her cheeks did not escape his notice, nor did the glance she gave him as she headed into another corridor. At least she was meeting his eye now.

More draugr stalked the lower catacombs. Myrna and Vilkas dealt with them with a lot less drama than the first, cutting them down before they had time to Shout and a few times even before they left their coffins. The long winding corridor let out into a huge chamber, the likes of which the Companions had never seen before. Tall pillars and spiral staircases had been built into a natural cavern, the stonework so covered in moss and lichen that one might be forgiven for thinking it was part of the cave itself. An eerie creaking sound marked the presence of skeleton archers – nothing more than a collection of bones brought to life by the old magic of the ruins. The skeletons were far weaker than their draugr brethren, having no flesh to protect them they fair exploded when the Companions' arrows struck them, sending bones and teeth scattering into the river that ran through the chamber.

It was a beautiful place, once the hostile dead were taken care of. Tall, spindly trees reached up towards a ghost of light that seeped through cracks in the rocks above, met by stalactites that stretched ever downwards. The limestone all around gleamed and shimmered, kept wet for centuries by a waterfall that roared and thundered in the semi-darkness. Myrna and Vilkas stared around in awe, taking turns to cross over a narrow stone bridge and to a ledge where a puzzle awaited.

The ledge contained three carved stones and a series of gates blocking the way through a tunnel in the wall. If a person approached one of the stones it would chime and glow red as its magic awoke, raising one of the gates in the tunnel but only for a few seconds, and not long enough for either of them to run through. The Companions tried using their packs to hold the gates open but the stones were not fooled, apparently they could tell the difference between a body and a dead weight. Vilkas busied himself searching every inch of the ledge, reasoning that there must be some way though, a switch or a button hidden somewhere in the walls. Myrna watched him for a while, his every curse amplified by their surroundings and the echoes causing drips to fall from the roof above. She traced her fingers on the swirling carvings of one of the stones, making it sing for her, closing her eyes as the sound filled her mind.

An idea struck.

Myrna moved to the back of the ledge, biting back the apprehension she felt. This would work. It had to. Facing the gates she began to run, then to sprint, passing through the singing stones as they joined one another in a sonorous harmony. The gates were all open. Now.

"Wuld Nah Kest!"

And then she was gone.

"Myrna!" Vilkas yelled, racing down the steps and to the gates which had again fallen shut. He gripped the iron bars of the first, shaking them for all he was worth, calling out for the Harbinger whom had disappeared within. He could see nothing past the gates but darkness, and heard nothing but the echoes of his own voice bouncing on the stones. Fear and panic seized his heart, his shouts becoming wordless cries of anguish when still he heard no answer and the thrice-damned gates refused to budge.

He reached for his sword, determined to smash the things down if that's what it would take to get though. Before his steel made contact there was a creak, and a rattle, and as if they had heard his silent threat all three portcullises were raised by an invisible force. Vilkas did not even wait to see if they were going to stay that way. Sword in hand he raced through the corridor, skidding to a halt in the chamber at the end. Movement caught his eye to his left, and turning he found the Harbinger, crouched upon the floor with her hand on the lever of the switch that had opened the gates.

"Myrna!" In an instant Vilkas was at her side, his sword clattering to the ground, reaching out to draw her hair away so that he could look upon her face. "What happened? Are you hurt?"

Myrna's breath was laboured, gasping. Even so she managed a whisper of a laugh, her hand falling from the switch to grip her knee. "Do you know..." she wheezed through shuddering laughter, "how many times I've used that Shout? How many times I failed? And here... I did it first time..."

Vilkas didn't have the slightest idea what she was talking about, nor could he see what was quite so funny. Once again he thought he had lost her, and once again she was laughing like it was all a big joke. The warrior bit his tongue, fighting to control his rising temper. He loved the woman with all his heart, but that did not mean he could ignore the fact that at times she could be a total and utter imbecile.

After a minute when they had both calmed a little and he was sure he wasn't going to shout at her, Vilkas dared to speak. "Are you all right?"

Though her breathing returned to normal, the smile did not leave Myrna's face. She was jubilant in her unforseen success, and unfortunately for Vilkas' nerves she was completely unable to hide it. "Oh I'm fine, fine. Messed my knees up a bit when I fell, but otherwise I'm good. Didn't get my face this time at least! I've never moved so fast in my life... It was amazing... Maybe a little terrifying... but... wow."

Vilkas didn't even pretend to listen to her babbling. He was rooting through his pack for poultices, rags, anything to stem the flow of the blood that was seeping through Myrna's torn leggings. Before he could find anything suitable Myrna had untucked the garment from her boots and rolled them up above her knees to inspect the damage herself. It was not much more than a graze, more irritation than actual injury, but the sooner it was healed the better. Myrna brushed away the dirt and gravel and closed her eyes, focusing her magicka into a healing spell that closed the wound in a heartbeat.

When she opened her eyes Vilkas was staring at her, the look on his face one of mingled confusion and shock.

Myrna blinked at him. "What?"

"You can use magic?!"

After another moment of silence a smile crept across the Harbinger's face. Suddenly she was whooping with giddy laughter, and Vilkas could do nothing except wait for her hysteria to pass.

"I'm sorry," she breathed at last, not sounding remotely sorry at all. "Of course I can use magic – I'm a Breton! God's blood, Vilkas, you've seen me use Thu'um, and you're worried about a little Restoration spell?! The look on your face..." She laughed again, and irritated as he undoubtedly was, it was all Vilkas could do not to smile with her.

"I... just did not expect it, is all," he replied, placing the bandages back in his bag. "In all the time I've known you, I've never once seen you use any sort of magic."

"I've never been much good at it," she admitted. "I can't fight with magic, or conjure anything worth a damn – shameful for a Breton, but there you are. I'd never make the Mage's College, but I can heal cuts and grazes, which sometimes comes in useful. My Da taught me."

Her smile widened at that last, perhaps in part at her father's memory. Vilkas wondered what sort of a man Myrna's father might have been, whether she was like him at all or whether she truly was a woman of her own making. While she had mentioned him a few times in passing Myrna had never gone into much detail, save for the fact that he had somehow died at the hands of the Imperial Army. More than that Vilkas would not ask. If she wished to speak of the man who had sired her he was sure she would do so in her own time.

Perhaps mistaking his quiet for apprehension, Myrna removed the leather gauntlet from her right hand and held it out towards him. A whispered word brought her magic to life, and this time Vilkas could see it clearly. The spell was a golden light within her hand, so much like a flame in appearance and yet somehow also akin to liquid and air. It danced between her fingers, made lazy eddies and swirls across her palm, lighting the shadows of her face as she concentrated on it. When Myrna ceased the incantation it faded at once, returning to nothingness as quickly as it had appeared.

"It's perfectly safe," she assured. "I can fix that magicka burn on your cheek, if you like? Unless you'd prefer the scar... I know how Nords can be."

Vilkas might have had a witty retort to that if he had not been so surprised by it. He had almost forgotten the burn he had received from the Altmer mage, and now that he was aware of it again he could feel it, a grating soreness beneath his skin. He tested the wound with his fingers. Even though his gloves he could feel how uneven it was, scar tissue making his face feel tight and uncomfortable. The health potion had done a good enough job in the meantime, but it would definitely need attending to properly before it fully healed. As for using magic... Vilkas was not sure. He had a respect for the Restoration school, but he was a traditional Nord, preferring poultices and herbs to the strange remedies used by wizards and certain priests. Watching Myrna though, it did not seem quite so daunting. She had done a fair job on her own injuries, what harm could possibly come from trying it this once?

"Go on then," he said, trying to sound as if she had twisted his arm. "I want everything put back the way it was, mind."

Myrna never imagined he would take her up on the offer. She grinned broadly, shuffling closer to the warrior on her haunches to perform the spell. "I will, don't worry. Now stay still a minute. I don't want you to end up with any extra ears or anything..."

If Vilkas had wanted to reply he was silenced by the hand she raised to his cheek. She did not quite touch him, though he could feel the warmth of her hand on his damaged skin, her closeness making him forget what he was going to say in an instant. Myrna drew closer to him, eyes lidded in concentration, whispering the spell in strange words beneath her breath. Vilkas was not sure when the magic had begun, nor when it ended. It started slow, the slightest tingling sensation becoming steadily stronger until waves of magic bathed his face, the light seeping into his skin from Myrna's fingers like molten gold. The burn smoothed out and knitted together seamlessly, the tight scarred tissue replaced with healthy flesh, magicka trickling down from his cheek, following his jaw until it reached his neck, healing all the damage it found in its path. It felt wonderful, a thousand times more soothing than a poultice, and when the Harbinger finally drew her hand away Vilkas found himself helplessly staring deep into her almond shaped eyes.

Myrna tore herself from his gaze after a long moment of hesitation, the warmth she had radiated into his skin mirrored in the blush that came to her own cheeks. She cleared her throat and straightened. "There. I can't promise every hair is where it should be, but I gave it my best."

Vilkas raised his hand to his cheek. The bristles of his stubble met his gauntlet, covering the area where the scar had been but a few moments ago. He had not even considered that the injury would leave him with a chunk of his facial hair missing, which would have looked pretty stupid after a while if he ever decided to let his beard grow out. His skin still felt warm, the remnants of Myrna's magicka not quite dissipated. She had not once touched him physically, yet he felt as if she had. Vilkas decided he should fight necromancers more often. Receiving a thousand magical burns would be worth it to receive this sort of treatment again.

"My thanks," he said, rising to his feet and offering a hand to Myrna. The Harbinger allowed herself to be hauled upwards, but fumbled with the fastening of her gauntlet rather than meet Vilkas' eye.

"Don't mention it," she said hurriedly, dusting herself down and looking around the chamber. "Now which way do we... ah – this way. Shall we?"

Without waiting for his answer she made for the corridor on the far end of the room, leaving Vilkas to gather his sword from the ground and follow after her. The redness in her cheeks was still present, and had not escaped Vilkas' notice. If he did not know better he would have said she was blushing - flustered... though for what possible reason? Intriguing as Myrna's sudden lack of composure was, Vilkas decided he would not mention it to her. At least for now. Even so, he could not suppress the small smile that ghosted upon his lips as he echoed her footsteps, and in the semi-darkness Myrna did not see it.

What followed was a series of traps; ancient pressure mechanisms set into the floors themselves that would bring a fiery end to any trespasser unlucky enough to trigger them. Luckily a safe path was marked out upon the few flagstones that were free of ash and black scorches, and while awkward it was not too difficult to navigate with a series of well-timed hops, skips and leaps. In spite of the heaviness of his armour Vilkas kept pace with Myrna, and at the last stretch of corridor where there was no obvious path they ran together full pelt, the flames no more than an inch behind them until they finally emerged, breathless in the final chamber of the tomb. Again Myrna was laughing between ragged gasps for air, and though he was clutching a stitch in his side Vilkas surprised himself by laughing too. This was it. They had done it.

Jurgen Windcaller's crypt stood below them, a grand flight of steps leading down to a path across a body of water that fizzed and bubbled as if trying to form whirlpools. There were no musty smells or evidence of decay in this chamber. Everything appeared to be exactly as the ancient Nords had left it eons ago, kept intact by some kind of magical energy that Myrna could sense in her blood. Candles were lit along the back wall, their flames neither flickering nor wavering, illuminating the inscriptions and the great stone coffin that stood at the end of the path. Myrna turned to Vilkas and, reassured by his nod, made her way down the steps and towards the sarcophagus. With each step came confidence and a sense of relief. She had completed her test. Very soon she would have the artefact she sought, and soon they would be leaving this tomb and heading for fresh air and light.

As she came to the path the water began to bubble more violently, the whole chamber beginning to shake as something emerged from the depths. In a heartbeat Vilkas was at her side with his sword drawn, though somehow Myrna knew they were not in danger. Instead she gazed in wonder as four huge stone statues rose from the water, carved in the likeness of great birds – eagles with beaks poised to screech into the sky. Myrna grinned as she admired the shimmering stonework. As well as a knack for puzzles and traps, the architects of Windcaller's tomb clearly did not lack for artistic flair. The same could be said for the coffin, which was embellished and ornamented with so many swirls and patterns it was quite unnecessary. A stone hand reached up from the lid, the fingers curved as if to hold something... something that was no longer there. A sick, cold feeling dropped into Myrna's stomach like a stone.

In place of the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller was a note.


	24. Chapter 24

**A/N: I've noticed the format of my files is getting messed up in the upload. I _think _I fixed it, but if anything doesn't make sense or looks wonky please let me know. Thank you for all views, follows and reviews, I am very humbled that people are liking my story. There's going to be a break in the action for a while, and the romance arc is taking a while to come to fruition, but it's all there in my mind and is hopefully worth taking the long road to get to. Sorry Vilkas - hang in there fella.**

**I was also very sorry to read about a guest reviewer's recent diagnosis. Life is very unfair sometimes, and I hope that you have more good days than you have bad. Keep your chin up x**

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><p><em>Dragonborn-<em>

_I need to speak to you. Urgently._

_Rent the attic room at the Sleeping Giant Inn in Riverwood, and I'll meet you._

_– A friend._

Myrna read the parchment three times over, fighting the urge to rip it into shreds in her rage. Of course the horn wouldn't be here. Of course there would be more to the task. Nothing in her life could ever be so straight-forward. As quickly as it had come upon her the anger faded. Crestfallen, she handed the note to Vilkas, suddenly feeling every mile she had walked and every swing of her weapons anew in the ache that sank into to her limbs. She had to sit. With no other option she seated herself upon the dais, her back against Windcaller's sarcophagus, bringing her knees up to her chest to rest her throbbing head upon them.

Vilkas read the note in a flash, voicing aloud the question in Myrna's mind.

"What is the meaning of this?"

Myrna did not need to look up at him to know he was scowling. "You tell me."

"Who is this "friend"? Do you know anyone from Riverwood?"

"Only one. A man I served with in the army hailed from there. We stayed at his sister's house in the village after we escaped Helgen."

"Does he know you are the Dragonborn?"

Myrna lifted her head, pushing away the hair that had fallen in front of her eyes. It was possible. Ulfric had announced her title among some of his officers, hoping that the idea of a living legend on their side might bolster their morale. None had questioned it, or at least had never questioned _her_ about it, but she had never used her Voice while serving in the army.

"He might," she answered finally, "but I doubt he would believe it. I do not think that is his handwriting anyway, it's too neat – like a woman's writing."

"Hm," said Vilkas, holding the note up to the candlelight. The words upon the parchment were written in small, curving letters and signed with a flourish that implied the writer might be female. However, Myrna herself had some of the scruffiest handwriting Vilkas had ever come across, so it was not a sure thing.

"One of the necromancers, maybe?" Myrna offered tentatively.

"I don't think so," Vilkas replied. "I don't think they got further than that chamber we found them in... and the draugr finished them off. This is the work of someone who knows tombs, knows traps, knows _you_. Someone knew you would be coming here. Think, Myrna! Who else could have left this for you?"

He crushed the parchment in his hand, glaring sharply down at her as she racked her brain for answers. Myrna quailed a little under his steely gaze, but at the same time she felt comforted by its familiarity. Vilkas' scowls she could deal with. The way he had looked at her while she was mending his wounds... that was something else altogether. She had been intent in her work, showing off what little magickal skill she possessed, and in so doing had completely forgotten it might have been more prudent to keep a respectful distance from the warrior, at least for the time being, while whatever feelings he had for her were still raw. When the spell no longer required her focus she had opened her eyes, expecting to laugh again at the worried expression on his face. Instead those silver eyes had been rapt upon hers, and she saw in them the love he had wordlessly declared for her in his parting kiss upon the steps of High Hrothgar.

He seemed a much different man to her now than the one who had put her through her paces at Jorrvaskr all those months ago. Back then he had pushed her hard, forced her to train until she felt ready to drop, responding to her numerous failings with derision and a sharp tongue. As the magic faded from her fingers Myrna saw how his dark features had softened, relaxed, the harsh blackness of his warpaint offset by the small smile on his lips. Vilkas was a handsome man, of that there was no doubt, yet Myrna had never really looked at him in that way before, nor had she looked twice at any man since her hurried departure from Solitude. After everything they had been through so far, suddenly she was seeing her Shield-brother in an altogether different light, and she had broken away from his gaze a few seconds too late to prevent the colour from rising to her cheeks. Vilkas had been looking at her as he had the day he had kissed her, and she felt a little shiver down her spine at the memory of his warm lips upon hers. Myrna had been shocked at herself. She had thought she was done with men – after all, there were more pressing matters at hand. After that she could not find Windcaller's horn fast enough, and the fire traps provided a welcome distraction from her confused and conflicted emotions.

However, now that she was remembering them, the strange feelings were creeping back. Myrna looked down at her hands, focusing her attention on anything that might stop her from blushing again.

"Well?" Vilkas prompted, his glare darkening at her silence.

Myrna gave silent thanks to the Divines that the warrior could not tell what she had just been thinking. She cleared her throat. "I don't know. Barlgruuf discovered I was the Dragonborn, as did a few of his guard when I helped slay that dragon, but since Whiterun was sacked they are most likely dead. Even if it was one of them, how would they know I would be coming here? Only the Greybeards could have known that."

Vilkas furrowed his eyebrows in thought. "Perhaps those old hermits have sent you on a fool's errand. They knew full well the horn wouldn't be here, yet they sent you anyway." Scowling, he clenched the note in his fist all the tighter.

"And what purpose would that serve?" Myrna replied sharply. "Their methods might be unorthodox... maybe even downright strange, but I think they genuinely wanted me to find the horn and prove myself as the Dovahkiin." She cared little for the Greybeards, yet she felt a strange sort of loyalty towards them. "Besides, why Riverwood? None of this makes sense!" Sighing wearily, she ran a hand through her tousled hair. "I can't return to the Greybeards without Windcaller's horn, and whoever has taken it might have answers that the monks could not or would not give me. I think the only way we're going to get to the bottom of this is to meet this person face to face and see what they want."

The warrior sneered at the suggestion. He folded his arms across his chest, rapidly losing control of his fraying temper. "And walk straight into a trap?! I don't think so. This note could be from _anyone_, Myrna! From the Thalmor or worse! Have you any idea what could happen to you if you were caught by them?!"

"I had considered that," she shot back. There was an icy tone to her voice, and upon hearing it Vilkas checked himself. After a steadying breath he relaxed, letting his arms fall to his sides again.

"Forgive me," he said, looking down to his feet. "You know I can't bear the thought of... Well..." He paused for a moment, wondering what would be acceptable for him to say. "It seems like you are a pawn in a very big game, Harbinger, and we do not yet know who all the players might be."

Myrna smiled. Vilkas would not be Vilkas if he accepted her decisions without question or argument. Recent revelations might have changed the dynamics of their friendship, but it was touching to know how much he cared for her. As he met her eye again Vilkas smiled too, though his heart did not really seem to be in it.

"I did not intend on going to the Sleeping Giant alone, you know," she assured. "You've followed me this far, Vilkas..."

"You do not even need to ask," he replied, stepping towards her. "I mislike this, but if it does turn out to be an ambush I want to be there to watch your back."

Myrna's smile widened. "I'm glad. Though I think we should head back to Whiterun before we make for the Inn. It's about time I divulged my secret to the rest of the Circle... do you think they will believe me?"

"Farkas will, without question," Vilkas said. He leaned his sword against the coffin and sat down next to her, leaning his back against the stone. "As for Aela, I would say it would be a fine thing for a werewolf to deny the existence of other so-called legends. Of all the Circle I am sure I would be the hardest to convince of your gift, and yet here we are." Myrna laughed at that, and Vilkas felt his lips twitch into a smile. "I think you are doing the right thing, Harbinger. The Circle should know, and will want to help if they can. We are your clan – your kin. Never forget it."

Myrna nodded, stretching out her aching legs in front of her. She knew she could trust her Shield-siblings with anything; her secret would go no further than the walls of the mead hall. Though the Companions had somehow garnered a reputation through the ages for being a bunch of drunken hooligans, they were fiercely loyal and protective of their own. In the time she had served in the army, living among her fellow soldiers, Myrna had never known friendships like the ones she had made at Jorrvaskr. As hostile as Skyrim could be to an outsider, she had found a place that felt like home without even looking for it.

For a while she and Vilkas did not speak, sharing a silence that was almost comfortable, the only sounds in the chamber the light_ drip, drip, drip_ of water falling from the eagle statues into the pool below. Windcaller's tomb was eerily beautiful in the light of the candles, the reflection of their magic flames glittering upon the water's surface like yellow stars upon a shining black sky. Myrna reached in her pack and rummaged in it, looking for something to settle her growling stomach. Now that they had stopped, she was finally aware of how hungry and tired she had become.

"I don't suppose there's any ration biscuits left?" Vilkas asked hopefully.

Myrna stifled a grin. It was a sorry state of affairs when Tilma's biscuits were the most appetising item of sustenance they possessed. They had polished off Wilhelm's venison pies on the journey to Hjaalmarsh, and they had been delicious. "Just the cured meat left. Here." She took a handful of pieces from the little packet the housekeeper had provided and passed them to him.

Vilkas wrinkled his nose as he regarded the small, greyish flakes of meat in his hands. It might have been beef once, perhaps even goat. It was hard to tell since Tilma had salted it so liberally it was devoid of any other flavour, and robbed the mouth of so much moisture you would be liable to choke if you attempted more than one piece at a time. Myrna handed him her waterskin before he had to ask for it, and Vilkas did not miss the way she stiffened when his fingers brushed hers. It was only the lightest of touches, yet it prompted a reaction from her where there would have been none before. Vilkas cursed himself silently. Could she ever be easy around him again?

Myrna chewed her rations slowly, curling the chain of her amulet around her fingers as she tried to arrange her scattered thoughts. The identity of the note-writer was the issue at the forefront of her mind. Who would go to such lengths to make contact with her that they would fight their way through a tomb of draugr and booby traps? And who could possibly know that the Greybeards would send her here to collect the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller? The Masters of the Voice kept their secrets out of the history books; to learn anything about their ways you had to climb up their blasted mountain, hoping that they would deem you worthy of the knowledge when you got there. Myrna couldn't think of anyone she knew who had done such a thing, aside from herself. Except, perhaps there was one...

_Ridiculous_, she chided herself as quickly as the notion occurred. Ulfric Stormcloak had better things to do than to engage in a childish game of cat and mouse with her - such as repairing the damage to his war-ravaged country for a start. The writing on the note was certainly not his, and if he had truly wanted to find her, Myrna was quite sure he would have done so by now. She had been fortunate thus far that none of the guards that patrolled Whiterun recognised her without her Stormcloak colours... but a message to the Jarl was all it would take to discover her whereabouts if Ulfric ever chose to. Vignar Greymane was no friend to her, in spite of his ties to the Companions, and the prospect of pleasing the soon-to-be High King would mean far more to him than her privacy. As the weeks passed after her return from Solitude with neither messenger or summons Myrna had assumed that Ulfric was simply not looking for her, which was good. Yet, as pathetic as it was to hope for, a small part of her had always wished that he would at least _try_.

Her eyelids were drooping. The creaky bed at the Vilemyr Inn seemed hundreds of miles away now, and the trials of the ruins had taken their toll on her body. Just as her head began to loll onto her shoulder, Vilkas' voice startled her awake again.

"Are we to camp here for the night, then?"

She caught her yawn with the back of her glove and nodded. So far underground it was impossible to tell what the hour was, but she guessed it was probably closer to dawn on the surface. "I can't go any further tonight."

The warrior took hold of his sword, making as if to stand. "You get some sleep, Harbinger. I'll take first watch."

"No, you should sleep too. There's nothing left in this tomb but the dead."

"The dead are what concerns me," Vilkas replied, his eyes upon the steps they had descended from.

"If there were any draugr left I doubt they would get past the fire traps," said Myrna. "Rest, Vilkas. We have another long walk ahead of us tomorrow, and I doubt we'll be so lucky as to get another lift."

Vilkas considered for a moment, then placed his sword back against the stone. "As you wish."

Satisfied, Myrna busied herself by pulling items out of her pack. Out came the robe the Greybeards had bestowed upon her, far more tattered than it had been when she received it, bringing with it all manner of things Myrna had stuffed into the little bag when they had departed from the inn at Ivarstead. Replacing the rest of her assorted junk haphazardly, Vilkas watched out of the corner of his as she put the garment on, wrapping it around herself. Given that it was likely made for a Nord man of twice her size there was plenty of material to spare, and it would serve her well as both clothing and coverlet. As he pulled out his own neatly-folded blanket Vilkas couldn't help but smile to himself at the sight of her, the hood falling over her eyes as it would a child, her hands lost somewhere in the sleeves as she arranged her bulging pack into a pillow of sorts and settled down to sleep.

He made his own bed a respectful distance away, watching the reflected candlelight making patterns on the ceiling when sleep proved elusive. Worrying thoughts nagged at him, the identity of the note writer, what awaited them in Riverwood – even the reaction of their Shield-siblings when they returned to Jorrvaskr. He had not left them in the most dignified of manners. In fact he had cursed every one of them, and he was sure Aela the Huntress had several choice words prepared for him at the next meeting of the Circle. Either that or a punch in the face. Maybe both. Vilkas felt he owed Farkas an explanation and an apology for his behaviour at the very least. They would all want to know why he had ignored the Harbinger's orders and gone after her, when he would never have disobeyed Kodlak when the man was alive. The Harbinger was no man's master at Jorrvaskr, but even so, the title demanded respect.

Vilkas turned over onto his side, resting his head upon his arm. He would think of something to tell them tomorrow. In the meantime he closed his eyes, listening to the slow, deep breathing of the woman close to him as he followed her into a surprisingly restful sleep.


	25. Chapter 25

**A/N: I think I might be the worst fanfic updater in the world. Hello if you're new, bless you if you're still with me. You guys deserve all the cookies on the internet :) A few calmer chapters, then we're back to the action!**

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><p>Jorrvaskr's kitchens were only just off the main hall, but far enough away that they provided a little respite from the usual hubbub of the Companions going about their day. It was here that Farkas came to relax and to think – something it was rumoured he spent very little time doing, but in actuality Farkas did rather a lot of thinking when he had good cause, and he did it much better when he had peace and quiet. The underground room was small and rather poky, and his large frame was taking up rather a large portion of it, yet Tilma the Haggard still found a way to bustle around him. The old woman sliced and chopped, peeled and stirred, preparing a meal for the warriors upstairs amid the simmering pans and roasting spits as she had done for many more decades than any could remember. Tilma seldom minded Farkas' intrusion in her workspace provided he made himself useful; and Farkas was only too happy to assist her with the cooking.<p>

When they were boys he and Vilkas had often been sent to the kitchens by way of punishment for their various misdeeds. Often times it was Vilkas that was the real culprit; his sharp wit and intelligence gave him a knack for making smart comments, and for upsetting Vignar with them. Farkas would often speak in his brother's defence, and therefore would find himself guilty by association and be disciplined alongside his twin. Tilma always had chores for them, and while Vilkas would scowl and huff his way through slicing up piles of carrots and onions Farkas found the menial tasks soothing, and enjoyed being in close proximity to the woman who had been mother to both of them in everything but name. Even though he now had to bend down awkwardly for her to kiss him on the cheek he still beamed with pleasure whenever she did; glad to be able to assist her in his small way.

Tilma had never been much of a chef, and now that she was getting on in years she seemed to have some odd ideas about suitable flavourings for the meals she produced. It wasn't too much of a concern; after a hard day's training or coming home from a bounty hunt the Companions were none too fussy about the food they ate so long as there was plenty of mead to go alongside it. However, no one could forget the day they were presented with sweetrolls baked with salt instead of sugar, and soon after was agreed among the Circle that perhaps the old woman needed some more regular assistance in her duties. The problem was that no one wished to insult her by making the suggestion to her face. Before they had had Brill, whom apparently had been responsible for saving them from more than a few culinary disasters at Tilma's hands, but they could not ask him to abandon his new post as Jarl Vignar's steward – especially not since the man had worked his way up from almost less than nothing to achieve the title he was justly proud of.

Whilst he was assisting her Farkas could gently remind Tilma to turn the chickens on the spit and to stir the gravy before it burned, but he could not spend all of his time in the kitchens when there were whelps to train and duties to assign. Another pair of hands was needed, and Farkas hoped Myrna would address the delicate matter whenever she returned to the Hall.

The Harbinger's absence, and the sudden departure of his brother to follow her, were the very reasons Farkas had come down to the kitchens to think. He had no idea why Vilkas had been so insistent on going after her; Myrna had seemed fine to him when she had left. Outwardly she looked far more healthy than she had in weeks, and he could think of no reason at all for Vilkas to be concerned that she had somehow abandoned them. True, she had not disclosed to any of them where she was going, but by the rules of their Order she was not obligated to. The one thing she had specified was that she was not to be followed, and yet his twin had still charged off after her in a temper, determined to bring her back home. Farkas still felt a wrench of guilt that he had not gone with him, to try and reason with his brother if nothing else. It was Aela that had stopped him following, assuring him that Myrna had a perfect right to keep her secrets and there was no sense in both of them feeling her ire at their refusal to heed her request. They would return soon enough, she had reasoned, yet more than two weeks had passed since they had left and there had been no word from either of them. It was unsettling, and the messengers coming through town were fast becoming tired of Farkas' repeated requests for news. He hoped nothing bad had happened.

Farkas stirred the pot steadily, shaking off the worries that gnawed at him. No news was good news. It was most likely that Vilkas had found her, they had argued, and his brother had taken off somewhere to sulk for a while – an inn or a tavern somewhere, perhaps. Two weeks was a long time, but Vilkas' moods could last for an age when it suited him, especially when a hearty "I told you so" from Aela would be awaiting him the moment he came home.

It was hard enough for either of them to be around the Huntress at the moment. Though Farkas himself was no longer directly affected by the changing phases of Nirn's twin moons, he could sense the coming of the full moon in Aela's shifting moods. Energy seemed to surge from her, escaping her body is a series of uncharacteristic smiles and laughter when she was usually so very calm and aloof in all her actions. It was excitement stirring in her blood; her eagerness for the Change and the thrill of the Hunt - something Farkas recognised all too well, and something he missed far more than his brother seemed to think. Vilkas made no secret of his struggle in losing the wolf side of himself, and often voiced aloud his envy that Farkas had taken to "normal" life with such ease. Farkas did not have the heart to tell him that he grieved for the beastblood too, for who could not after so many years living the lives they had? Lycanthropy to him had been as much as gift as a curse, and without the heightened senses of the wolf the world seemed a far duller place to him now. However, Farkas did not see the point in crying over spilt milk. What was done was done, for good or ill, though Kodlak had always insisted it would be worth the sacrifice when their spirits ascended to Sovngarde. Besides, being human - a whole human, was not so bad; he fought as well with a blade as with tooth and claw, and the rest he was learning to do without.

A movement in the corner of the eye made him jump and he turned to see Aela standing there in the doorway, and for a second her wondered whether he had somehow summoned her by thinking of her. The Huntress was smiling, her arms folded across her chest. He could tell had been there a while, just waiting for him to notice her presence, something he could have done instantly if only he could pick up her scent. Alas, no longer.

"So this is where you have been hiding," she grinned, leaning against the door frame.

"Aela," Farkas nodded, trying not to let her see that she had startled him. "what can I do for you?"

"Oh nothing, really. I just wanted to make sure you hadn't forgotten I'm hunting tonight, so you're on your own with the whelps."

Babysitting, in other words. Farkas gave the pot another stir. "Of course I haven't forgotten. You give me too little credit - I'm sure I can cope for one night."

"I never said you couldn't. But if I were you, I'd hurry up with the dinner - they're getting restless up there." She walked over to inspect the contents of the pot and wrinkled her nose. "Pottage? You know they're going to want meat..."

"They'll have what they're given!" Tilma called from the other side of the kitchen where she was removing chickens from the spit. "They'll not get a whiff of these chickens until they eat their vegetables, you know the rules Miss Aela." The old woman's stern expression softened, the smile that came to her lips deepening the crinkles around her eyes. "Now what are you doing down here my dear? Don't be putting poor Farkas off his work. Are you eating with us tonight, or shall I keep some of these birds back for you?"

Aela nodded. "If you could put something in the usual place for me I'll be sure to find it in the morning."

"Say no more."

The usual place was the Underforge, the place where the Circle once met to perform the rituals necessary to their lycanthropy. Now that there was only one werewolf among them, Myrna had designated it as Aela's personal space in which to undertake her Change without fear of interruption. Farkas tried to push down his feelings of envy, knowing the Huntress would be spending her evening hunting deer and chasing elk while he supervised the petty squabbles in the mead hall above. As if she could sense his feelings, Aela placed her hand on his shoulder with a sympathetic half smile.

"You know, I don't feel right leaving you alone like this. The Circle needs more members, especially now your brother has decided to up and leave us short-handed. We should talk to Myrna when she gets back. Assuming she is coming back..."

"Of course she's coming back," Tilma exclaimed, carrying over a gigantic basket piled high with roasted chickens and hoisting it up to rest upon the table before them. The birds wobbled precariously on impact, but fortunately did not fall. "I've known Kodlak Whitemane for longer than either of you have been alive, long enough to know he would not bequeath the title of Harbinger to anyone who didn't deserve it." Her irritated gaze turned to Farkas, who was bringing the cauldron of soup off the fire to cool. "This is your brother's influence. Vilkas has had it in for that girl since the moment she arrived here, even though she's done more for the Companions than any of us thought she could."

"You don't need to tell me that," Farkas agreed, fanning the steam from the soup with a rag. "You know what Vilkas is like when he gets an idea in his head. He's not been so bad lately, he and Myrna have been getting on better for the Circle's sake..."

Aela's derisive scoff cut him short. "That's funny... I could have sworn he said he was going to 'find her and drag her back here'. That didn't sound too friendly to me."

Farkas could not argue with her there, seeing as it was the truth, but he scowled at the Huntress regardless.

"Now now you two, don't you start," Tilma chided, crossing the room to fetch a little pot of gravy from above the oven where it had been warming. She placed it upon the table with the rest of the meal's components. "Are you sure I can't tempt you with a bit of chicken Aela? Not even just a leg?"

Aela couldn't resist a smile at the housekeeper's fussing. It didn't matter to Tilma how old they were or where they ranked in the pecking order of Jorrvaskr, as far as she was concerned the Companions were her children and she clucked over all of them like an old mother hen.

"Perhaps a small piece, thank you Tilma."

"Well then you may as well take a whole one. I can't have you going out all night on an empty stomach. Wait there while I find you a plate."

Before Aela could argue she was off, searching the clutter of pots and pans that surrounded them for a piece of clean crockery. Aela caught Farkas' eye, and in an instant their disagreement was forgotten as they tried to keep their laughter silent.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOO

A short while later, after Aela had left, Farkas assisted Tilma in carrying the various items of food upstairs to the mead hall for the waiting Companions. Aela had not been exaggerating, the whelps were indeed restless; the combination of mead and empty stomachs exacerbating the usual banter into rowdy shouting and crude gestures until they noticed the presence of their superior among them. Farkas was not one to berate them, after all they had all spent a long day training and deserved to let off steam, though he gently reminded them that Tilma did not wish to hear their cursing. Abashed, the warriors gave a chorus of apologies to the housekeeper, which she accepted graciously as she served them their dinner of vegetable pottage, chicken and bread.

"Any chance I could have a little more chicken?" Torvar drawled as she was serving him. "I've been laid up you see, with my leg and all, a bit of extra meat will help my recovery."

Taking his own seat at the table, Farkas rolled his eyes at the man's obvious appeal for sympathy. Torvar had been injured, and fairly seriously, when the assignment he had undertaken at Myrna's behest had gone awry. It had not actually been Torvar's fault - a fact neither Farkas or Aela had believed until hearing the same story from all of the new bloods he had taken out hunting that day. It seemed the client had misstated the amount of bears they were expected to take care of, and instead of finding a mated pair in the cave in question the hunting party had walked into the lair of a large family of the creatures that had been rightly irked at having their home invaded. After a brutal fight the Companions had somehow escaped with their lives and no more than a few bruises and scratches... all save for Torvar, who had come off the worst by far. Faced with a giant grizzly bear looming above him the Bosmer lad, Melras, had frozen in fear. His favoured bow was useless at such close range, and the boy apparently had neither the wit or the will to go for the sword at his belt. It had been up to Torvar to save him, rushing in with his hammer to cover Melras while he made his escape. Except Melras could not move, and in the ensuing chaos Torvar had found himself at the receiving end of a powerful swipe from the great animal's paw which had shattered the bones of his right leg instantly.

"I would have been done for too, had it not been for my lass here," Torvar grinned, raising a mug to the blonde girl to his right. "Brave as a lioness she is, and just as deadly, so long as it's a blade she's wielding and not a bow."

The young Nord woman blushed to the tips of her ears at the compliment, staring down onto her plate rather than meet the eyes that were now trained on her. This was also true, Ava had been responsible for Torvar's rescue, be it by skill or just plain dumb luck her sword had pierced the bear's throat, ending its life in a few uncertain seconds. They had struggled home by degrees, each taking it in turns to support their injured comrade, and had returned to Jorrvaskr a fair few days later than expected. The Bosmer recruit did not return with them. Shamed by his lack of backbone he had left them at the Nightgate Inn, creeping off into the night as they slept. Good riddance, Farkas thought. If the boy was a coward there was no place for him among the Companions. A demand for extra gold was sent to the client for neglecting to make them aware of the severity of the threat they were facing, and after Farkas suggested he would pay the farmer in question a very personal visit the man soon opted to pay in full.

All in all, the expedition had been a success. The new bloods had tested their mettle, and Torvar was one step closer to initiation for possible acceptance to the Circle. Farkas took a deep draught of his mead, imagining the look on Vilkas' face should such an event ever came to pass.

Tilma was far more sympathetic to Torvar than she probably ought to be, but then she had not heard his tale as many times as the warriors had. "You poor dear," she soothed, patting the blond Nord on the shoulder and smiling at him warmly. "You can have as much chicken as you like, as soon as you're done with your vegetables."

Torvar gazed down into his dish of pottage, eyeing the carrots and potatoes warily. He waited until Tilma was out of earshot before muttering, "If this swill is even edible it'll be a fine thing..."

"Oh it should be," Farkas interjected, dunking a chunk of bread into his bowl, "I made it."

Seated next to Farkas, Njada Stonearm did not bother to suppress her snicker as Torvar's jaw dropped. Hurriedly the man dipped his own bread into the soup, dripping oats into his beard as he took a hearty mouthful. "Mmf... verr' nice it ish too, Sir," he said, amid a spray of breadcrumbs.

"Disgusting," Njada said flatly, averting her eyes from the scene and turning her attention to her own food. Torvar ignored her comment, instead focusing on his flagon, which he found to be empty.

He nudged Ava, who had been neatly nibbling on her crust of bread, and winked. "Listen sweeting, you've done enough for me I know, but I don't suppose you could fetch a poor wounded warrior a drink...?"

Ava went to rise from the bench when the sound of Njada slamming her cup down upon the table stopped her in her tracks. All eyes fell upon the woman, who was glaring at Torvar with a look of utmost contempt. "Get your own damn drinks, Torvar. Don't force the new bloods to run around after your sorry drunken arse all day."

"I'd get it myself if I could!" Torvar returned, "'S'not my fault I've got a broken leg..."

"Oh, have you?" Njada shot back. "We'd never know, since you certainly don't go on about it every minute of every day. In any case, the Priest said you should be healed by now, and I've seen you move fast enough when they call last orders at the Bannered Mare."

The blond man bared his teeth at the woman in front of him. "And what makes you care so much, harpy?"

A collective breath was drawn around the table the instant the insult left Torvar's mouth. Njada's temper was not easily kept, and perhaps it was the presence of Farkas at her side that made her refrain from launching herself over the table at the man. Instead she gripped her cup so tight she was liable to buckle it.

"Call me that again," she said through gritted teeth, "and I'll damn well break your other leg."

A slow smirk spread across Torvar's face. Farkas tried to command him through sheer force of will not to say anything more, but alas it was to no avail.

"Harpy."

Leaping to his feet, Farkas seized Njada just in time to stop her getting to Torvar, but not quickly enough to prevent the cup from leaving her hand and hitting Torvar between the eyes at force. With a roar of anger and pain Torvar responded in kind, hurling his own cup at Njada. Thankfully it sailed over both Njada and Farkas' heads, landing with a clatter on the stones behind them.

"Hah! Is that the best you can you, you drunken s'wit?"

"I'm just getting started," Torvar growled, taking the cup that Athis passed to him. The Dunmer seemed to be enjoying the proceedings immensely; he and Njada had not been on friendly terms since he had lost to her in a fist fight some months ago.

"Stop this!" Farkas shouted, pulling Njada out of the path of the second cup just in the nick of time. Instantly the entire table fell silent. Farkas did not raise his voice often, but when he did it was loud. "You are warriors of Jorrvaskr - not children in a school yard! You should be ashamed of yourselves, what would the Harbinger say if she were here?!"

"It's good to be home," Myrna answered with a laugh.


	26. Chapter 26

**A/N: Thank you so much for your lovely reviews. Do you realise I've been writing this story on and off for 3 years (!)... rest assured I do have an ending in mind, but I have no idea when we're going to get there :D It means so much to me that people have stuck with me and are enjoying the story. I nearly had a heart attack today when my computer told me my story file had corrupted... at 117,000 words! Needless to say I've done a backup now. Phew! **

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><p>Farkas turned to see Myrna making her way down the steps from the door, and his heart soared with relief to see Vilkas following behind her. Neither seemed too worse for wear, a little tired and rough around the edges perhaps, but no more than that. Farkas released Njada and beamed, throwing his arms wide as he welcome the pair back into the fold.<p>

"Aha, the wanderers return at last!" he laughed. "I hope whatever business you had went well?"

"Well enough, thank you Farkas," Myrna smiled, removing her gloves and travelling cloak with her pack. "Are there places for us to join you for dinner? I'm starving."

"Of course, of course... Move down everyone, make room for your Harbinger," he made a shooing gesture and they shuffled down the bench, leaving a space that was just wide enough for the two to sit down, which they did after carefully laying down their weapons.

Food was passed around, a brief toast was made, and it was as if they had never even been away. Myrna tucked into the soup with enthusiasm; it was far from the best she'd ever tasted, but after two days on travelling rations it was delicious.

Vilkas soaked his bread in the soup, watching his Shield-siblings continue their meal as if the disturbance of five minutes ago had not even occurred. "Very well, I shall ask, since apparently no one else is going to. What on Nirn was going on before we arrived?" he asked, turning to his brother who merely shrugged in response. Casting his eyes further down the table, the looks Vilkas received ranged from blank, to guilty, and then to outright defiance when he came to look upon the face of Njada Stonearm.

"Something and nothing," Farkas replied, refilling his brother's mug with a generous helping of mead. "It was all in hand."

"It did not look like nothing. It looked like a brawl to me." Vilkas stared hard at Torvar, the only one among them who had at least the grace to look the slightest bit ashamed, though the redness of the man's cheeks indicated he was already well into his cups as per usual.

Myrna looked up with vague interest, glancing between Torvar and Njada. It was well known that the pair had been... _fraternising _in recent weeks, and Myrna was curious as to what had happened to turn their relationship sour. It was hardly a match made in heaven, for the simple fact that neither of them had what you might call a winning personality. She turned to Vilkas, who had now fixed his stare upon Farkas as he waited for an explanation. Myrna sighed inwardly. It was late. They were tired. Why could he not just let it go?

"If Farkas says it was nothing, it was nothing." She said smoothly, reaching for another bottle of ale. "So stop being such a misery guts and have a drink."

She raised the bottle, nudging him in the arm as she brought it to her lips. Surprised at the sudden contact Vilkas blinked at her for a moment, his own features breaking into a smile as he saw the teasing grin on her face. He raised his mug to her, and the whole congregation took this as a sign that it was time for another toast - not that they usually needed any persuasion in that regard.

"What's all this?" Tilma was forced to raise her voice over the chorus of cheers as she struggled back up the stairs into the mead hall, the pot of gravy tucked under her arm. "We'll be needing another order of mead from Honningbrew with the way you're going on. What-"

It was a good job Jovan had already risen to take the pot from her, or the housekeeper would certainly have dropped it. Upon seeing Myrna and Vilkas she scuttled towards them as fast as her arthritis would allow, throwing her arms about them in turn.

"Why didn't you send a message to let me know you were coming back?" Her tone was meant to be chiding, but her beaming smile betrayed her delight in having the warriors home. "I would have cooked something special for you!"

"This is fine, Tilma," Myrna assured, gesturing to her empty soup bowl and the chicken bones on the side of her plate. "Any hot meal goes down a treat after being on the road for days."

"Aye, whatever were you thinking of... creeping off into the night like that? Some of us do worry, you know. What were you up to?" Tilma reached across the table for another piece of chicken and placed it on Myrna's plate, regardless of whether the Harbinger wanted it or not. Sensing the matter was not up for discussion, Myrna picked up her cutlery and began slicing meat from the bones.

"Oh, this and that, exploring... Hunting bandits..." Myrna replied, ignoring Vilkas' pointed cough as she said the last. It was at least partially true - they had killed more bandits than anything else in their travels. She would leave out the necromancers and draugr for the time being. "What about you, Tilma? Have you been keeping well?"

"Me? Well I keep taking my potions," the old woman chuckled. Farkas and Vilkas exchanged a silent look of concern. "I've been very well, dear. And things have been well here too, aside from the business with Melras."

"Melras?" Myrna replied, peering around the table to search for the Bosmer, who was conspicuous by his absence. Myrna's heart sank at once. "Where is he? What happened?"

Sensing the panic in her voice, Farkas spoke up. "Nothing like that, Harbinger - he lives. Seems the boy wasn't cut out for being a Companion, so he left us. It happens."

Relieved, Myrna allowed herself to release the breath she had been holding. If Melras had been killed following her orders she would never have forgiven herself. Still she felt a pang that the young elf had left them so soon - he might not have been the best recruit among them, but she thought he had shown promise.

"Don't feel too sorry for him," Torvar slurred, sloshing mead down the front of his armour. Ava had been passing him drinks whenever Njada was not looking, so the blond Nord had consumed plenty and more since the Harbinger had returned and created a distraction. "Thanks to that little wretch I nearly bit the dust."

Vilkas raised a sceptical eyebrow. In his opinion Torvar looked no worse off than he did normally.

"Really? How?"

Around the table eyes collectively rolled as Torvar began to launch into the tale they had heard nigh on a hundred times over. Thankfully Farkas saved them from hearing it again, cutting in before the man could answer.

"I'll explain it to you later," he said firmly, and with a look not unlike a pout at being so interrupted, Torvar returned silently to his drinking.

When the bowl came round Tilma ladled a large portion of gravy onto both Myrna and Vilkas' chicken, smiling warmly as they tucked in again. "It is good to have you back. I'm baking sweetrolls for afters, so make sure you leave room!"

Worried looks shot around the table as the housekeeper made for the kitchens; the horror of the salted sweetroll experience still fresh in their minds. It was Ria that went after her with an offer of help she would play off as innocent, and for which the rest of the Companions were entirely grateful.

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><p>Vilkas lay upon his bed, the open book upon his face shielding his eyes from the lamplight. Back in familiar surroundings its was surprising how easy it was to slip back into old habits; going to bed with the intention of reading only to stare at the words while his mind wandered away with itself. Somewhere down the hall came a hoot of raucous laughter which was quickly shushed, although the person doing the shushing somehow managed to be even louder than their noisy comrade in doing so. Vilkas listened in the darkness as several doors were banged, furniture walked into and loud oaths made, followed by peals of laughter that most likely came from an intoxicated Ria. The whelps were making their way to their beds far later than was usual. As was also becoming habit of late, the Companions' humble dinner had turned into something of a feast to mark the return of their Harbinger, and as Tilma had predicted an order would need to be placed with Honningbrew Meadery to restock Jorrvaskr's cellars. Vilkas would attend to that himself in the morning, for he was sure no one else would have the wits for the task when they rose for the day.<p>

Even he had quaffed more cups of mead than he had intended, mainly at Farkas' insistence. Vilkas' cup was barely half-empty before his brother refilled it again, gently pressing him for details about the real reason he and Myrna had been away for so long. Vilkas assured him that all would be revealed tomorrow, when the Circle could convene out of earshot of the whelps. He couldn't help but chuckle when Farkas admitted his doubts that they were simply hunting bandits. It was a flimsy explanation at best, but one the whelps had seemed happy enough with to not question.

As the night wore on, Vilkas had been surprised at how well the Harbinger was keeping up with the drinking and merrymaking going on around her. Though they had slept a little in the ruins, with no wagons available to give them a ride their journey home from Morthal had been on foot and therefore exhausting. It had been quiet too. Vilkas had kept his eyes on the horizon as they walked, the soft thuds of her leather boots on the road the only indication that Myrna was still there beside him. For hours neither of them spoke, and when Vilkas turned to look at her he saw the Harbinger's face was set, deep in thought. Whenever she noticed he was watching her she would immediately paste on a watery smile, but Vilkas was not fooled. Myrna was worrying... about the writer of the note, about Alduin, about everything, and though he shared her misgivings Vilkas would not voice them aloud. If the Harbinger wished for his counsel, she knew she could ask him for it, and if she did not wish to talk he would not force her to. He wished she would say _something_, however. It was simply not like her to be silent for so long.

Being among her Shield-siblings seemed to be a tonic to Myrna. When the sweetrolls had been eaten (and surprisingly, enjoyed) she had taken to her duties as Harbinger again immediately, looking over the pile of messages Tilma had brought for her at the table and scratching out replies with a quill while she drank her ale with the rest. Once Torvar had finally imbibed so much mead that he had to be carried from the hall, Myrna risked enquiring about the circumstances behind Melras' departure. As Farkas told the tale Myrna listened with keen interest, pausing him only to ask questions of Eva and Jovan, the only newbloods that now remained. Eva flushed bright red when the Harbinger praised her bravery, and when she complimented his impressive kill-count Jovan merely grinned, running a hand through his mane of floppy red curls in feigned nonchalance. Vilkas narrowed his eyes at the lad. In their absence he had been attempting to grow out his beard, presumably in an attempt to look more of a man than the boy he undoubtedly was, and had thus far only achieved a somewhat patchy fuzz surrounding his upper lip and part of his chin. As soon as the opportunity arose Jovan had moved to sit beside Myrna under the pretence of helping her with her correspondence, sitting far closer to her than was necessary to affix wax seals to the missives. It was at this point in the evening that Vilkas drained his last cup and said his goodnights. He did not want to witness the boy's feeble attempts at bootlicking, nor listen to his insipid remarks for one minute longer.

At last all was quiet in the lower halls, and Vilkas thought it was about time he tried to sleep. Myrna had decided they would head to Riverwood the next morning, as soon as they had spoken to Farkas and Aela, whenever the Huntress returned. It had come as something of a surprise to Vilkas that he had not noticed the full moon's approach this month. When he had been a wolf he had always felt the call of the Hunt in his veins far before his brethren had; it was an ache that began deep in his bones, his lust for blood tugging at his heart with increasing urgency, willing him to Change - to run and chase and fight and kill for his pack. Fighting through a tomb full of traps and bonewalkers had proved something of a distraction from the phases of the moons, and Vilkas assumed the jealousy he felt towards Aela and her Change was due to habit and nothing more. Whatever the cause, he had bigger things to worry about at present.

He was about to put out the lamp when there was a knock at the door. He thought at first to ignore it; to pretend he was already asleep and make whomever it was on the other side wait until the morning if they wished to speak with him. Then they knocked again and, reasoning that it might in fact be Myrna, Vilkas decided he should answer even if he did not rise from his mattress to do so.

"Yes?"

"It's me," said Farkas through the door. "Can I come in?"

Vilkas sighed and set down his book, feeling slightly disappointed. "It's open," he replied. When he saw the bottle of brandy Farkas had with him, Vilkas raised an accusing eyebrow. "If you think you can butter me up with that you've got another thing coming. I'm not telling you anything before tomorrow."

Farkas did his best impression of appearing wounded, though his grin never left his face. "Always so _suspicious_, Vilkas. I just came to see if you fancied a nightcap, but if you're going to be like that perhaps I'll go to bed..."

His teasing grin mirrored Vilkas' own, and Vilkas stood up to be enveloped in his twin's embrace. They clapped each other on the back heartily, the sound of their deep laughter filling the little room as Farkas closed the door behind him. Vilkas searched for some cups, but never one to stand on ceremony, Farkas took a deep swig of brandy straight from the bottle and passed it to his twin as he sat upon the bed. Vilkas sniffed the bottle and took a tentative sip, resisting the urge to spit as the burning liquid touched his tongue.

"Hell's teeth, where did you get this swill from, Farkas? It tastes like skeever piss!"

Farkas shrugged and accepted the bottle again. "It's from Cyrodiil, I think. It's no Nordic whiskey, but it has a nice kick if you can get past the taste."

Vilkas thought it prudent not to mention he had consumed an entire bottle of Nordic whiskey to himself at the Vilemyr, as Farkas would no doubt want to know why he had not brought some back for him. His brother was right, however. Now the acrid taste had faded from his tongue the warmth of the spirit has begun to fill his insides, the strong alcohol pleasantly soothing to his tired mind and its troubling thoughts.

They swapped the bottle back and forth between them, much as they had when they had been lads pilfering bottles from Jorrvaskr's cellars. Tilma had always turned a blind eye to their petty thievery, and they always paid for it in the yard the next day. If he suspected they were hungover, Kodlak would work the twins twice as hard, turning a deaf ear to their pleas for mercy as he made them run laps around the city walls in full armour. Being teenagers, and therefore knowing better than anyone else, it took a long time for the lesson to sink in.

Farkas was only capable so much reminiscing and small talk. By the time half the bottle was gone and with the subject of his adventures with Myrna off the table until the next day, the larger of the twins found himself struggling to keep the conversation going. Before long he had fallen silent, his tongue working inside his cheek with the question he was not sure if he should ask. Vilkas knew that look, and had already assumed Farkas had not paid a visit to his quarters for the sole purpose of fraternal bonding.

"Out with it Farkas."

Farkas knew he should tread carefully. He was not good with words, and he hoped he could pose the question that had been puzzling him for weeks with enough tact to not cause offence. It did not help that Vilkas was looking him straight in the eye. "That day you left," he began, taking a deep breath, "when you went after Myrna... Why were you so angry, when she promised she would return?"

Vilkas' eyes fell to the bottle in his hands guiltily. Was there even an explanation he could give or his behaviour that did not sound truly pathetic?

"I don't know," he replied honestly, taking another sip. "I suppose I was worried she had upped and left us again, as she did when she went to war. She was working so hard, becoming a good Harbinger - better than I ever thought she could be. I thought she was turning her back on us, on _Kodlak... _I know now I was mistaken."

"And you've been hunting bandits, this whole time?" Though he was trying, Farkas could not keep the incredulous tone from his voice, and a wry smile crossed Vilkas' face upon hearing it.

"It is not my tale to tell, brother, or I would let you have the truth now. Myrna will tell you herself tomorrow, as soon as Aela is herself again. Just know that her reasons for going away were good ones. She is more than just our Harbinger... she is more than any of us could have ever believed possible. Kodlak was right. Myrna is..."

He trailed off, looking down at the bottle once more. The treacherous spirit had loosened his tongue; he had revealed far too much, spoken far too freely, and he could practically hear the cogs turning inside Farkas' head as he processed the information. When his brother spoke next, however, Vilkas was not at all prepared for what he said.

"You love her, don't you?"

Vilkas sat bolt upright as though stung by a shock spell, almost spilling the brandy onto the floor. Farkas took it from him, a small smile turning up the corner of his mouth at the sight of his brother's reaction.

"Love? Wha- what do you mean?" Vilkas blustered indignantly, but the smile on Farkas' face grew ever wider.

"Myrna," he replied simply. "You love her."

Vilkas' stared at his twin, his mouth hanging open as he mentally scrabbled for the words to deny the claim. Just because he was speaking highly of Myrna when before he had found little cause to, was it automatically to be assumed that he was in love with the woman? For every second he was silent he condemned himself further, and one look at Farkas' face told him he knew the truth. He could not lie to his brother, and could hardly deny his feelings towards Myrna now when he was certain that they were written all over his face. Vilkas leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, resting his head in his hands dejectedly. "How long have you known?"

Farkas shrugged. "A while. You forget I know you better than anyone. I've seen the way you look at her. No woman has ever gotten underneath your skin the way the Harbinger has... you don't yell at someone like that unless you care about them."

So Farkas had guessed his feelings before Vilkas had even understood them himself. And no wonder - he and his brother had forged their bonds in the womb, and neither could hide anything from the other for long. Suddenly a horrible thought crossed Vilkas' mind. "Does anyone else know?"

"No, just me," Farkas assured. "I'm no gossip. Your secrets are my secrets, though if you keep glaring daggers at Jovan like that they might not be before long. The boy hasn't a hope in Oblivion there - you know it, I know it... I think even _he _knows it, to tell the truth. The Gods do love a trier, though."

"Aye," was all Vilkas could manage. He couldn't help but feel irritated by Jovan's constant clumsy flirtations with the Harbinger, even though he knew Myrna would stop the boy in his tracks if he put so much as a toe over the line. After all, what Vilkas had done himself was far worse. He reached for the bottle again, forcing down a large gulp of the disgusting liquid in the hopes it would silence the nagging voices at the back of his mind; the ones that seemed bent on reminding him of his mistakes.

Taking stock of the slump of Vilkas' shoulders, Farkas removed the bottle before he could drain it completely, moving up the mattress so he was sitting comfortingly close to his miserable twin. Vilkas stiffened against the arm he placed around his shoulders, then finally relaxed. Hiding his emotions had been exhausting, more so than the entirety of his journey with the Harbinger thus far.

"Does she know how you feel?"

And there it was - the crux of it. Vilkas took a deep breath. He was not used to this - being so open about the longings of his heart, but then he had never felt this way before about anyone. "Aye, she does. Something happened on the moun- er, well, I did something stupid. I kissed her."

"Ha!" exclaimed Farkas triumphantly, slapping him on the back. "And then?"

"Nothing," Vilkas replied. "It was a mistake, I overstepped my bounds completely, misread everything... I'm no good at this, I don't know what I'm doing." His head fell back into his hands, his knuckles pressing into his closed eyelids. "It hardly matters. I think she has someone else."

Farkas considered this, scratching his head. "I don't think so," he said. "Since she's been back from the army I haven't seen anyone, and you'd think Myrna would have mentioned..."

"You'd be surprised of the things Myrna doesn't think to mention to us," Vilkas replied bitterly. Farkas met this announcement with a frown of confusion. "You'll find out what I mean tomorrow."


	27. Chapter 27

**A/N: Another update! Hooray! Not much action, but I love the Companions and I love writing them, they're a big happy dysfunctional family and the first questline I think I ever finished :) As always enjoy!**

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><p>After her business at Jorrvaskr had been concluded, missives sent and food orders made, the Harbinger had opted not to spend the night in the mead hall and instead made her way across the city to Breezehome, the house she had been gifted when Jarl Barlgruuf had made her a Thane of the city. Myrna still felt a twinge of guilt when she remembered the man she had betrayed when she sided with the Stormcloaks, even though at the time she believed it was for the good of all of Skyrim. When she delivered Ulfric's axe to him, that last ditch attempt at peace between the two old friends, Barlgruuf had not been angry. Instead he simply seemed sad when he returned the axe to her hands, which had been far worse. Barlgruuf told her he hoped she knew what she was doing, throwing her lot in with Ulfric Stormcloak. Of course she had not. In those days she had been blinded by her love for the man, and by her hatred of the Imperial Army, both of which Ulfric Stormcloak had played expertly to his advantage as he sought to reclaim his country from the Empire.<p>

There was no time for regrets now. She had made her choice, and in these early days of Stormcloak rule very little had changed. Vignar Greymane was the new Jarl of Whiterun and had allowed her to keep her title, even though hardly anyone in the city seemed to recognise her as their Thane. Myrna reasoned that this was probably for the best. If people remembered her from before the war, they would certainly remember the business with the dragon at the watchtower, and she was still not ready to reveal herself publicly as the Dragonborn. It was merely delaying the inevitable, but with the return of the dragons still a relative mystery and her own powers largely untested, the world would have to wait a little longer for its saviour to emerge.

Lydia had been delighted at her mistress' return. When Myrna had opened the door to her home and stepped inside the kitchen the housecarl had run down the stairs in her nightgown, brandishing a sword with which to fight off the would-be intruder. Upon realising her mistake she had blustered apologies and commenced fussing over Myrna almost as much as Tilma did, begging her pardon for the lack of food and wine in the house. Myrna did not much care, she had consumed more than enough at Jorrvaskr. All that concerned her was that there was a fire in the hearth and blanket upon her bed, both of which Lydia had prepared for her.

Lydia had been hard at work during the night, it seemed. Myrna's armour, which she had removed piece by piece as she climbed the stairs, was now neatly stacked upon the kitchen table, every item carefully cleaned and oiled in a manner Myrna seldom had time for, even though she knew it must be done. A breakfast of porridge was waiting for her when she came downstairs, and she ate heartily while Lydia rushed around preparing a hot bath for her before the fire. Myrna insisted that the housecarl slow down, that she was doing far too much for her, but Lydia would not hear it. Weeks of sitting idle had been driving her mad, and the young woman was glad to finally be able to do the job she was paid for.

The bath was glorious. Myrna let the hot water soothe the aches from her muscles, the sweet fragrance of the oils and scented soaps a far cry from the strip-washes she had been forced to take on the road, which were inadequate at best. Simply being able to take her armour off for a few hours felt like luxury; being able to wash her hair and soak her feet was nothing short of heaven. When the water went cold she even chanced a flame spell to reheat it, reasoning that if it went awry it was unlikely to cause any harm when her hands were submerged. It had the desired effect, and Myrna was able to buy herself yet more precious minutes in the tub, grateful that she had had the foresight to rise early enough to to enjoy it.

Eyes closed, she allowed herself to imagine a world without dragons, without the burdens the Gods had placed upon her reluctant shoulders; where she was free to make her own choices without fear of the consequences of her actions; when he soul had been whole, and _human. _She was jerked out of her reverie by the banging of the door as it opened and closed announcing the return of Lydia, whom had found several more errands to occupy herself with outside of the home. A cold draught swept through the kitchen, forcing Myrna to take a sharp breath as it turned her exposed skin to gooseflesh.

"Apologies, my Th- er, Myrna," said the flustered housecarl, respectfully averting her eyes from her mistress' nakedness. "I did not think you would still be in the bath."

Myrna smiled. It had taken several stern reminders for Lydia to begin using her name rather than her title in addressing her. "Nor did I," she replied, "but I was feeling indulgent, and I have a little extra time on my hands." She slipped beneath the water again, ensuring she was covered by soap suds to save the woman's blushes. "Did you get everything done that you needed to?"

Lydia unpacked the bundle of skins she was carrying, producing Myrna's weapons for her inspection. "Ah, not quite. Adrienne at Warmaiden's said she is unaccustomed to working with ebony and elven metal. She sharpened your blades to the best of her ability, but she was afraid of damaging them if she tried to get too fine an edge on them."

Myrna crossed her arms over her chest and leaned over to look. "They seem fine to me, Lydia, a definite improvement to what they were. I'm sure I can find a whetstone to suit them somewhere."

The housecarl did not look convinced, but hung the sword and axe upon the weapon rack anyway. She brightened a little as she unwrapped the final skins, revealing Myrna's bow, the wood polished so finely it looked brand new. "This I took to the Drunken Huntsman. Say what you like about elves, but they know what they're doing with a bow, that's for sure. They cleaned it up and waxed the string, and even had glass arrows in stock. I know you like them, so I bought enough to refill your quiver. I hope you don't mind...?"

"Why ever should I mind?" Myrna laughed. "You've saved me a rather tedious job. I'm heading out on the road again today, and thanks to you my equipment is fit for purpose again."

"You're leaving again so soon?" Lydia replied, looking crestfallen. "I don't suppose you can tell me where this time?

Myrna shook her head with an apologetic smile. Lydia had been there when Barlgruuf had named her Dragonborn, but she was unsure as to whether the young woman believed in the legends or not. "Not yet. I will tell you what I'm about as soon as I am able, Lydia. I don't like keeping secrets, especially from those I consider my friends. Don't worry about me while I'm away - I am Harbinger of the Companions, after all. If I am walking into danger then I never go alone."

"But I am your _housecarl,_" the dark-haired woman insisted, "sworn to serve you, to carry your burdens as my own."

"I know," Myrna soothed. It pained her to see Lydia in such distress, but she could not involve her in her quest while there were still so many unknowns. Putting anyone else in danger was senseless. "For now you can best serve me here, keeping my home for me, attending to my duties as Thane while I am away. Speaking of which, have there been any messages?"

"A tax demand from the Jarl, which I paid," Lydia replied stiffly, turning away to arrange the bow in its place upon the rack.

"Nothing more?"

"No, nothing." Lydia turned back to face her. "Were you expecting something?"

"... No, not really," she said after a pause. Truthfully Myrna had half expected to find a summons waiting for her bearing the Stormcloak insignia... Had half hoped for it, in fact. She sank down further into the rapidly cooling water, hiding her frown from Lydia as the other woman went about her business, stuffing rations and blankets into her pack. Myrna wasn't sure how to feel. Had Ulfric forgotten her, or did he simply no longer have need of her now that the war was won? He had told her on many occasions what an asset she was to his cause, had told his men they should be proud to fight alongside the Dragonborn, yet all those nights they had spent alone in his chambers... Did they mean nothing to him?

Myrna closed her eyes. She was being foolish. There was no point in raking over the past now when there was never any chance of it ending happily - for her at least. Whenever she and Ulfric had made love she was always careful to be gone before the morning, creeping through the halls of the palace so as not to be spotted by another soldier or a servant. The reason for this was clear. It was not enough that she was the Dragonborn; Ulfric Stormcloak saw shame in bedding a woman of mer blood, and the King of the Nords should have a nothing less than pureblooded Queen to rule at his side. No matter how many battles she won for him, Myrna could never change her heritage, and neither would she want to if she could. It was better that she had left Solitude when she did, rather than risk her heart being broken any further.

And then there was Vilkas. Vilkas _did _love her. He had never admitted it in words, leaving his actions on the mountaintop to speak for him. His kiss told her how little he cared about the Breton blood in her veins; he was a Nord but by no means a traditionalist. The Companion was so different from Ulfric; Vilkas' only ambition in life was the prosperity of the Companions, to whom he had been sworn almost from birth. He was moody, cantankerous even, but everything he did and said had always been out of concern for her safety. Their friendship had grown from forced toleration into a bond she had not thought possible, though it had been shaken somewhat since he had kissed her and his true feelings towards her had come to the surface. Was it cruel of her to still want him to accompany her upon her quest? To ask him to remain at her side despite knowing how he felt about her? She could not force herself to love him back, although she could not deny he was a handsome man, and perhaps in another life she might have been tempted...

More pointless conjecture. Myrna dipped her head under the water and resurfaced, pushing the remaining soap from her hair with her fingertips. She had lingered in the bath for long enough, and she didn't like to imagine what Vilkas would say if she was late for her meeting with the Circle. She had not the slightest clue what she was going to say to them when she got there, the truth being what it was, but Vilkas had assured her she would be believed and he had not been wrong thus far.

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><p>Vilkas lingered outside the door of Myrna's room, wondering whether he should knock again. So far he had tried twice and received no answer, and the hour was growing late. Breakfast time had long since passed, though there were few diners at the table this morning as the Companions suffered the effects of the mead they had consumed the night before. As he had retired to bed early, Vilkas did not know what time Myrna had stayed up until - if she was still sleeping he was loathe to enter the room to wake her. It would not be appropriate for him, given everything that had occurred. Typically, now that she was needed Tilma was nowhere to be seen, and Vilkas was about to go and locate her when he was startled by the banging of Jorrvaskr's heavy main doors.<p>

He was stunned to see it was Myrna, fully dressed in her armour and laden with her weapons and pack, which she dropped on the floor at the top of the steps. Her hair was shiny and clean, braided and tied at the back of her head in a tight knot, her red warpaint applied in streaks below her eyes, drawing his attention to them. Vilkas felt the air leave his lungs in an instant. He had grown used to seeing her unkempt and weatherworn as they travelled together, for neither of them had found much time for personal grooming. She always looked beautiful, a bit of dust and dirt could not prevent her from looking so, but to see her properly rested and refreshed was something else entirely. There was a lightness to her step as she made her way into the hall, and upon spotting Vilkas lurking in the corner she fixed him with a dazzling smile.

"Good morning!" she breezed, walking towards him. Vilkas did not need the wolf's blood to pick up the scent of apple and honey on her skin. The Harbinger had found time for a bath this morning, and Vilkas felt a prickle of envy. There had barely been enough hot water for him to have a wash and a shave after Farkas had somehow managed to get to the privy first.

"You've been busy," he observed, gesturing to her polished armour and packed bag.

Myrna chuckled. "Come on Vilkas, you've known me long enough by now to know I'm not capable of this level of organisation. My housecarl has been helping me - I slept at home last night."

"At home?" Vilkas raised his eyebrows. What other home did Myrna have aside from Jorrvaskr?

"Breezehome," she supplied, "My house. I wanted to speak to Lydia, and see if I had any messages. It just seemed easier to sleep there once I arrived."

Vilkas had a vague recollection of a house in the Market District that had stood empty for some time, before being purchased by the Thane of Whiterun. It was easy to forget that the title belonged to Myrna, when she preferred to serve the people of the city as Harbinger of the Companions rather than as a preening politician in the Cloud District. She was far better suited to swordplay than flattering the Jarl, especially now that that Jarl was none other than Vignar Greymane. When Myrna had first joined the Companions Vignar had harboured the same misgivings about her as Vilkas had, and mentioned them to Kodlak often and at considerable length. After she was made Harbinger, Vignar would never admit he had been wrong, only seeing fit to concede that the Breton woman was perhaps "not as dumb as she looks." Praise indeed.

"Are they waiting?" Myrna asked, starting towards the door that led to the yard. Vilkas followed a few paces behind, trying not to think about the subtle sway of her hips as she walked.

"Aye, they are. Aela came back in the wee hours, or so I'm told." He had not seen the Huntress himself. In fact he had avoided her deliberately, and he only knew she was home because his brother had told him at breakfast.

"Let's get this over with then," Myrna replied.

If she was at all nervous about the meeting, she was hiding it well. They made their way across the empty yard to the underforge, above which Eorlund was apparently present and working hard if the sound of hammer on steel was anything to judge by. The Harbinger looked around out of habit, despite knowing they were not being watched, and pressed her fingers into the stones before her, which were innocuous to the untrained eye. When she had found all the right touchstones, the rocks began to rumble and crack, revealing a door in the wall through which they both stepped, though Vilkas had to duck.

Myrna had first been in the underforge when she was a whelp. Summoned by Skjor, she had been offered the gift of lycanthropy by way of initiation into the Circle of the Companions' most senior and accomplished warriors. While living in Jorrvaskr, she had heard the howling that the guards so often spoke of, and like them had assumed that the Companions simply kept hunting dogs that she had not yet been permitted to train with. To see Aela transformed into a werewolf before her very eyes had been a shock, and if she had not encountered two dragons before the event Myrna might have run screaming from the city. Though outwardly a beast, Aela's eyes remained human and intelligent, and it could not be refuted that the beastblood would be a great advantage in battle. Myrna had turned down the offer anyway. If Barlgruuf was to be believed, she already had the soul of a dragon, and adding wolf's blood to the mix would likely do more harm than good. There were enough elements of her life that she could not control, and thankfully Skjor had taken her refusal gracefully even if the shape-changed Aela had growled a little under her breath. Kodlak had made Myrna a member of the Circle not long after, when she promised to help him find a cure for those who considered the beastblood a curse. With Skjor dead, only Aela remained a wolf, and the underforge was her place now.

The cavern seemed much larger, now there were fewer members to meet there. The sound of the Skyforge's roaring flames echoed from above, giving the air a dry, crisp feeling. Farkas immediately made his presence known; leaning against the font that stood in the centre of the room he greeted Myrna and Vilkas with a roguish grin as they entered. For her part, Aela was not as affable. A long night's hunting had left her human form tired and drawn; and though she had slept she had not done so in a bed as of yet. She lurked in the shadows at one side of the room, her tousled hair covering fresh scratches on her face as she sat upon one of the three alters to Hircine, abandoned by all now but her. Upon seeing Myrna she managed a subtle nod, however her eyes narrowed when they met those of Vilkas. The warrior braced himself for an argument: the Huntress was going to have her say.

"Here he is at last, our beloved Shield-brother... Finally deigning to grace us with his presence after leaving us in the lurch with the whelps," she sneered, folding her arms as she stood. "Two weeks without a word, Vilkas. I trust you have a reasonable explanation."

"I do. One you shall receive, if you will hold your tongue long enough to hear it," Vilkas returned, his tone icy.

But Aela was not yet done. "What were you thinking of, exactly? Chasing after the Harbinger after she expressly forbade you to do so... " she ranted, "Not to mention cursing us all to Oblivion as you slammed the door behind you... You are a member of the _Circle,_ Vilkas! Think what example you are setting for the lower ranks!"

Myrna turned to look at him sharply at that, and beneath her startled gaze Vilkas felt shame sink into his stomach like a cold liquid. He swallowed against the dryness that came to his mouth, trying to maintain his composure. It did not help that everything Aela had accused him of was entirely true. He glanced towards his brother, who was staring at his boots and looking very much like he wanted to be kept out of this increasingly heated conversation. No help there then.

"I apologise for what I said that day," he said as sincerely as he was able. "You are right - it was uncalled for. As to the rest, you forget we are under no man's rule here. If I wish to leave the hall at any time then I am at perfect liberty to do so."

The Huntress tossed her mane of red hair angrily. "The Circle is too small for you to just wander off on flights of fancy! It is fortunate you returned for the full moon, or Farkas would have been on his own!"

"Are you suggesting my brother is not capable of taking care of the whelps for _one _night?" Vilkas asked, incensed at the implication. "Do not forget the choice to keep the Beastblood was yours, Aela. If it were not for your desire to remain under Hircine's thrall, the phases of the moon would concern the Companions no more than the coming of the rains."

With no retort to that Aela bared her teeth, revealing the elongated canines of her wolf form between her parted lips. She and Vilkas glared at each other fiercely, meanwhile Farkas met Myrna's inquiring look with a shrug and a half-formed smile. Myrna cleared her throat.

"Yes, well, if you two have _quite _finished," she began, moving to stand in the centre of the room. "I assume you wish to know why I have called this meeting of the Circle."

"Such as it is," Aela replied, finally unfolding her arms and stepping out of the shade. "We really must talk about bringing more members into the Circle, Harbinger, we cannot go on as we are."

"Aye, and we shall," Myrna assured. "Torvar informs me that he has no wish to rise beyond the rank of a whelp, however, so I am considering Ria if she's amenable to the suggestion."

Vilkas could scarcely disguise his scoff. "Ria? That girl has a lot of training to do, if she wishes to become one of us..."

"... And she's perfectly able to learn, just as I was," Myrna finished, scowling at him as he came to stand at her side. "But we are straying from the subject at hand. I am sure you want to know my reasons for leaving Jorrvaskr as I did, and I shall tell you, though allow me to request that you do not question me until I am finished."

Myrna took a deep breath and looked to Vilkas again. Reassured by his answering nod, she began to explain. It was easiest not to look at any of them as she spoke; instead she peered down into the blood-stained font as she recited the events that had led her to this point. Helgen, Mirmulnir, the Greybeards, Alduin, Ustengrav... she explained in as much detail as she was able to recall, hoping against hope that the fanciful tale would be believed when she could still scarcely believe it herself. When she was done Vilkas placed a hand on her shoulder, and though initially she jumped at his touch Myrna had to admit that she found his presence at her side comforting. Vilkas believed her, at least.

At last she dared to look upon the faces of her fellows. Aela's brows were knitted tightly as she processed this barrage of strange new information. Farkas simply looked confused. The big man looked between her and his twin, searching for confirmation that this was some elaborate prank they had concocted together to tease him with. When neither of them laughed in the minutes of silence that followed the strange tale, it was Farkas that spoke first.

"Dragonborn..." he breathed, his voice scarcely above a whisper as he tested the weight of the word on his tongue. "You mean, the dragon-slayer that the guards all spoke of - that was _you?!"_

"Aye," Myrna replied quietly, "I hardly call myself a dragon-slayer, however. There were close to fifty others with me; we felled the beast together."

"Prove it," Aela challenged, crossing her arms across her chest again. "You say you can Shout, then shout for us, right here and now."

"Don't be a fool," Vilkas growled, "a Shout will bring all the whelps running, not to mention that it would likely kill us in such close confines. I have seen Myrna use the Voice myself. She is the Dragonborn, of that have no doubt."

Aela looked the Harbinger up and down as though taking the measure of her anew. Under her scrutiny Myrna quailed slightly, though she kept her face neutral until finally the Huntress seemed satisfied.

"Very well," she allowed, bowing her head respectfully. "My apologies Harbinger. It is simply a lot to take in all at once."

Relieved, Myrna could not hold back a grin. "I understand entirely. I did not want to believe it myself, but I've learned the hard way that I cannot deny what I am. I do not pretend to know what made the Divines choose me for this task. Saving the world seems a very tall order, but as long as there is breath in my body I shall endeavour to try. Vilkas may have followed me without my consent to begin with, but I'm very glad that he did. Without his sword at my side I would almost certainly be dead - I was a fool to try and do this without involving my Shield-siblings, and I'm sorry I did not seek your counsel before now."

"Better late than never," Farkas laughed. "The Dragonborn among the Companions... The Bards will make a fine song of this when it gets out!"

"Not yet they won't," said Vilkas with a quelling look at his twin. "For the moment it would be prudent to keep Myrna's identity to ourselves, as much as we can. Talk of the Dragonborn within the city walls has simmered down to no more than a rumour. It would be better if it remained so, at least until we decipher the meaning of _this_."

From a pouch on his belt he withdrew the piece of parchment, folded neatly into a small square and handed it to Aela. The Huntress cast her eyes over it quickly and frowned, passing it then to Farkas, who took a little longer to read the elegant script but managed to reach the same conclusion as everyone else.

"A friend?" he rumbled, handing the note back to Vilkas. "An ambush, more like. Have you any enemies in Riverwood?"

Myrna rubbed her eyes with gloved thumb and forefinger. She and Vilkas had been over this in exhaustive detail as they made the trip back from Ustengrav. "None that I'm aware of, Farkas. But this person fought their way through walking corpses and traps to get my attention - they must want it badly. Perhaps they wish to help me."

It became apparent that her optimism was not shared by her peers. They cast meaningful glances to each other over her head, making her feel a little like she was a whelp again rather than their advisor.

"In any case, I am sure they were not counting on the involvement of the Companions," Farkas said cheerfully. "I've not been to the Sleeping Giant Inn for an age, I wonder if they still do that mead with the juniper berries in... Or was that Helgen...?"

"We will not be visiting to sample the drinks menu," Vilkas replied, with a baleful look at his brother. "And it was Helgen you were thinking of."

"So you intend to meet this person, then?" Aela inquired, her features stern. "Seems risky."

"I know, I know," Myrna conceded. "I have been through all of this with Vilkas. We will do as the note requests - if there's trouble I'm sure it will be nothing we can't fight our way out of."

"You're taking Vilkas?" Aela's green eyes flashed wildly beneath her warpaint. "Why not Farkas? Or myself? Or all of us?"

"If we all go charging into Riverwood whomever we are meeting will realise something's amiss," Vilkas answered, drawing himself up to meet the glare of the Huntress. "I have been with Myrna from the start. I vowed I would see her to the end of her quest, such as it is, and I firmly intend to do so."

Farkas scuffed the dusty floor with a mailed boot. "Well that's hardly fair. You go off hunting dragons while we're left here minding the whelps."

"I doubt there's a dragon roosting in Riverwood, especially not in the attic of the Inn," Myrna replied, patting the larger of the twins on the forearm with a smile. "If we require assistance we will inform you, of course. Similarly if you hear nothing from us, I hope you will come to our aid."

"Aye, that we will," Farkas assured, clapping Myrna on the back with one of his giant hands. "My sword is yours, whenever you have need of it."

"As is my bow," said Aela, unfolding her arms to place one hand on her Harbinger's shoulder. She did not let it linger there, but it was enough to show that she cared. "I cannot pretend I like this plan of yours, but I trust your judgement."

Myrna breathed a sigh of relief. The friendship of the Companions was truly a blessing from the Divines, and she felt honoured and humbled to be their Harbinger. "Thank you both," she said, looking to Farkas and Aela in turn, smiling. When her eyes met Vilkas' she found herself smiling even wider, and corrected herself.

"Thank you all."


	28. Chapter 28

**A/N: I wrote and rewrote this chapter so many times, for some reason it was a real struggle. As always love and appreciate all those that are taking the time to read, fave and review. I'm a few chapters ahead of updates with my writing, and I hope you'll be pleased to know I'm finally writing in some romance *gasp*. I'm sorry you're having to wait so long for it, I base this story on how I played the game so I always have that in mind when I'm writing, and sometimes it takes me a while to get everything to "fit". Have a lovely weekend and I hope you enjoy x**

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><p>Riverwood was no more than a stone's throw from Whiterun, but there was no telling where they might be going from there. Their business in the Underforge concluded, Vilkas headed for his quarters to gather his things before meeting Myrna at the city gates, as they had agreed. He swapped his beaten and worn blanket for one that was drier and smelled a great deal better, drew a cloak from under his bed and folded it to place in his pack, and was in the midst of selecting a new book for the journey when it became apparent that someone was watching him.<p>

Farkas had appeared in the doorway of his room, and proceeded in expressing his concerns that perhaps it was not the best idea for Vilkas to continue accompanying Myrna, given the conversation they had shared the night previously. He had offered to take Vilkas' place, reasoning that the strength of Ysgramor was almost as good as the smarts, and gently suggesting that time spent apart from her would help his brother come to terms with his unrequited feelings for the Harbinger and give him a chance to move on. Vilkas knew Farkas only had his best interests at heart, but he could not bring himself to agree with him. If he remained at Jorrvaskr while Myrna went away he would surely go mad with worry - it had to be him by her side; there was no way around it. Farkas had not sought to argue his point any further then, knowing from bitter experience the futility of argument when Vilkas' mind was made up. With nothing more to be said, he enveloped his twin in a forceful hug, with a demand that Vilkas send regular messages to let the Circle know he and Myrna were safe.

After collecting his newly-sharpened sword from Eorlund and a packet of rations from the market, Vilkas set off for the gates to find Myrna. The Harbinger had been ready and waiting for him, and couldn't resist chiding him good-naturedly for being late. Vilkas felt his spirits lift at the sight of her smile. He was a fool to be so in love with this woman, he could tell himself over and over yet it did no good. She felt comfortable enough in his presence again now that she was able to look at him for more than a second, for which he was thankful, yet every time those beautiful brown eyes made contact with his he felt as if he could die on the spot. There was something in the look she gave him sometimes, in that teasing half-smile that lit up her features... Was it madness to think she might care for him yet? Vilkas thought it probably was, but Sheogorath take him if he could stop himself from hoping.

Riverwood was much the same as it had ever been. Vilkas had not visited the village for some time, and even then mostly as a thoroughfare to the larger town of Helgen, yet despite dragons and the civil war it seemed very little had changed. Small thatched houses stood either side of muddy track that served as a road; it was not much to look at, but the village contained everything its little community needed to go about their quiet lives. The blacksmith was hard at work hammering at his forge, a young boy was trying desperately to shepherd errant chickens back onto his family's farm, and in the distance the whirring of a saw could be heard slicing logs at the mill across the river. It was not quite as provincial as Ivarstead, given its close proximity and trading route to the city of Whiterun, but the locals seemed happy enough keeping themselves to themselves. The arrival of two newcomers raised more than one eyebrow as they passed.

Myrna glanced around, breathing in the sweet, pine-scent that was carried on the breeze from the surrounding forests. It seemed as if she had last been here in another life; before war, love and the strangeness of her fate had so changed and jaded her. A time in which she had simply been glad that her head was still attached to her body, and that she had escaped the fires of Helgen without being burned or eaten alive by the monstrous black dragon. She had not appreciated the quaintness of the little village by the river; for at that time it had been nothing more to her than a stop on the way to the city, where she had planned to hide herself from the Imperial Army in plain sight. It was a truly lovely place, tucked away from the bustle of Whiterun and nestled in the foothills of the mountains. _Perhaps I should have stayed here_, she thought grimly, allowing Vilkas to steer her in the direction of the Sleeping Giant Inn.

They were about to walk up the steps to the door when a voice broke through the relative silence.

"Hail, Stormblade!"

Myrna froze. She knew that voice. She and Vilkas whirled around to find a blond Nord grinning back at them, wearing the blues of a Stormcloak Captain. Without waiting for a reply he strode forward, seizing Myrna in a tremendous embrace that lifted her feet clear off the ground. At once Vilkas drew his sword, ready to defend his Harbinger until he realised Myrna was laughing.

"Put me down, you great oaf," she chuckled,"or Vilkas here is like to cut your head off!"

"As you say ma'am," the blond man replied, setting her back on her feet with a grin. Myrna beamed back at him despite herself. Ralof of Riverwood had changed as little as his home town; perhaps there were a few new scars, a crease or two around his eyes, but that was it. Vilkas eyed the man suspiciously, still holding his sword aloft. He noted the sudden flush of pink in the Harbinger's cheeks, the way her hand lingered slightly on the man's chest as she pushed him away from her with a laugh. They seemed rather more familiar with each other to be merely _comrades, _especially when the laughing stranger brought Myrna's gloved hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles, making her laugh all the more. Cords of jealousy twisted in Vilkas' stomach, turning his innards into a web of knots. He had never before felt such utter loathing for a man that he did not even know the name of. Was this soldier, this grinning blond _fool_, the man that Myrna loved? What could this man possibly have, that he himself did not? With eyes as dark as his mood, Vilkas reluctantly returned his blade to his shoulders and awaited proper introductions.

The Soldier's eyes fell upon the wolf emblem that adorned his distinctive armour; clearly taking the measure of him too.

"You're running with the Companions now?" he asked, shifting his gaze to Myrna suddenly.

"I am," Myrna replied, then, remembering herself, added "This is Vilkas. Vilkas, this is Ralof - a dear friend of mine. We served together in the Stormcloak army."

So much Vilkas had gathered already. The man - Ralof, offered his hand, but Vilkas folded his arms instead of shaking it. Myrna shot him a look out of the corner of her eye, her scowl a silent reprimand for his rudeness. Ralof simply shrugged, apparently unperturbed.

"By the Nine, disappeared after Solitude... I woke and you were gone, fled into the night like some thief on the lam. What happened?"

Myrna shifted, rubbing the back of her neck with her hand. "I don't even know that myself, Ralof. I just had to get out of there. I was given a discharge, to leave then seemed as good a time as any." She hesitated, trying to hold back the burning question in her mind. "Are they looking for me?"

"Not officially," Ralof replied. "Galmar sent a message to the commanding officers, that should we hear word of your whereabouts to contact him at once." He regarded her shrewdly, watching her expression for clues to the unfinished story. "What did you do, Stormblade? What have you to fear from returning to ranks?"

"Nothing," Myrna replied at once. "I have done nothing wrong, I just... can't go back now. Not any more. Please, Ralof. We are friends, are we not? Please don't tell anyone you saw me here."

There was a pause as Ralof considered. There was more to the story, any fool could see that, and twice the soldier opened his mouth to ask something before thinking better of it.

"Very well. You have saved my life on more than one occasion while we served together; so I will keep my silence for you - this time. We miss you in the ranks, Myrna. Well, _I _miss you, anyway. Drills just aren't the same without you showing the boys how it's done."

"A lifetime ago, it seems," Myrna smiled. She stood on her toes to plant a kiss on her former comrade's cheek. "Thank you, Ralof. I appreciate what you're doing for me. I have business here I must attend to, but I hope we will meet again soon in less... mysterious circumstances. If you're ever visiting Whiterun, you must call at Jorrvaskr for a drink."

At this offer the man grinned again. Vilkas found himself disliking him even more; that sideways smile of his was very close to a smirk; cocky and too self-assured. He made a mental note to inform Tilma that the doors of Jorrvaskr were barred to strangers for the foreseeable future.

"Aye, I may do that," Ralof replied. "Well met then, Myrna of the Companions." He made a brief salute, which she returned, then continued on his way up the street towards the cottage that belonged to his sister, Gerdur.

Myrna watched him go, finally allowing her shoulders to relax once the man rounded the corner. It was fairly obvious now that this had not quite been the happy reunion the Harbinger had made it appear. Vilkas fought back the burning questions that came to his mind, things he had pondered upon ever since Myrna's return to Whiterun from serving in the army. Why had she left Solitude so soon after the battle? Why exactly was she so determined not to return to the ranks of the Stormcloaks? Of course she had her responsibilities as Harbinger to think of, but Vilkas did not for a moment believe they were the only reason Myrna was so loathe to rejoin her former brothers and sisters in arms. And another thing, a shameful question, one he had no right to ever ask her but he was desperate to know all the same... just what was the nature of her relationship with this man - this smirking fool who called himself Ralof? As he watched Myrna twisting her amulet of Talos between her fingers an image of the pair of them leapt into his head, of their bodies entwined together, naked and sweating...

Something of his thoughts must have shown upon his face, for Myrna turned to him again, her expression weary in her defiance. "If you needed to know, Vilkas, I would tell you. Just... Leave it, all right?"

With that she ascended the steps, yanked open the door of the inn and stepped inside without waiting for him to follow. The door banged shut behind her. Vilkas stared at it for a moment before moving. If Myrna and Ralof _had _ever been intimate, it had clearly ended badly, and he should have probably been ashamed that that thought cheered him remarkably as he made his way into the Sleeping Giant Inn.

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><p>The Inn had the same air of familiarity as all the inns in Skyrim seemed to; the large firepit and mead-stained stones added to the atmosphere of homeliness, a place where generations of Nords had come to drink away the cares of their day be they farmer, soldier or Thane. Vilkas eyed the animal skins and cow-horn sconces that adorned the walls and came to the conclusion that he had been here before, once upon a time. He might have even tumbled a bar wench or two within these walls; it was hard to remember anything of that ilk from when the wolf's spirit was within him.<p>

If he had been with a woman here, it was certainly not the one behind the bar. She was tall and robust-looking, yet not a Nord. Her light blue eyes were pinched closely together above a pointed and slightly hawk-like nose, and her cheekbones were high and as refined as those of an elf. She might be second or third generation, but Vilkas knew a Breton when he saw one.

"Drink?" the woman asked as he took a barstool next to Myrna, who was already savouring the remnants of what had a few moments ago been a large cup of mulled wine. Vilkas blinked at her. It was more of a demand than a question, and he got the distinct impression the woman's patience was wearing thinner with every second he took to respond.

"Nordic Mead," he replied. "Warm, if you please."

The woman's eyes narrowed as if he had made some outlandish request, then she stomped off into the kitchen and, after a muffled argument with a man inside, came back with a bottle that let off a fine sliver of steam when she uncorked it with her knife.

"Welcome to the Sleeping Giant Inn," she announced with an air of impatience. "I'm Delphine. That great ox in there is Orgnar. Give us a holler if you need anything."

And with that she collected a broom and began sweeping, a job that was apparently supposed to be Orgnar's if her muttering was anything to go by. Vilkas took a sip of his mead. It tasted rather old, perhaps even on the cusp of turning bad, but it would do. Myrna seemed to have fewer qualms about her wine, for she poured herself another cup from the bottle, flipping a gold Septim onto the bar by way of payment. The Harbinger seemed very tense, and perhaps with good reason... though the Sleeping Giant did not seem to be harbouring any gangs of would-be assassins within its walls. In fact he and Myrna appeared to be the only patrons, for all the doors to the guest rooms were wide open and empty aside from a selection of mismatched and time worn furniture.

Vilkas chanced another glance in Myrna's direction. Beneath a curtain of hair that had escaped from her bun, the Harbinger's face was set, her eyes staring into the bottom of her cup as if there was something more in there than the dregs of her wine. It was a look she had taken to adopting on many occasions since returning to Jorrvaskr, though Vilkas thought it had been happening less in recent days. Seeing Ralof again had stirred something in her, a train of thought that was best left unvisited. Vilkas wished he could say something to cheer her, to bring a smile to the lips that the wine had darkened. If nothing else, there was the matter at hand to distract her with.

"What is the plan, Harbinger?"

At the sound of his voice Myrna started, blinking herself out of her reverie. She had almost forgotten they were here for a purpose, and that she could not simply to drink herself into the arms of Shor as she wished she could at that moment. Ralof had said that Galmar Stone-Fist was looking for her... Galmar took his orders directly from Ulfric himself, which meant _he _must be looking for her. All at once she had felt giddy and sick, elated and dismayed... She hoped she had managed to save face in front of her Stormcloak comrade, but Vilkas of course knew her far better than that. But _why _was Ulfric looking for her? Did he wish for her to fight for him again? Or was it for some other purpose - the hope she had clung to like a lovelorn s'wit for months until her senses finally returned to her? Myrna pushed her hair back from her face and smiled at her Shield-brother, despite knowing he would not be at all fooled by the cheerful expression.

"The note said to ask for the attic room. I can't see that this place has one, but there might be one in an outbuilding or something. I will ask that woman - Delphine, when she comes back."

Vilkas nodded. "Very well."

They went back to their respective drinks, sipping quietly as they watched the Breton woman going about her business. She swept the floor, mopped the tables, stoked the coals of the fire - nothing remarkable, though Vilkas fancied she was sneaking furtive looks at them both when she thought he was not looking. Suspicion was not unheard of among small town barkeeps... it could simply be that the woman feared they would steal something if she was not watching them, though as time went on it seemed more as if she was making an assessment of them both, so Vilkas made sure to be on his guard. After the woman made another trip to the kitchen to nag her associate she finally abandoned the broom and headed for the bar, and Myrna was able to make her request.

"Excuse me, madam Delphine," she said sweetly. "We would like to rent a room."

In the middle of wiping the inside of a pewter flagon, the woman stopped and blinked at her. "Well you _can_," she said, after a moment of pause. "But it is only just past noon."

"Oh I know that," Myrna replied, a sideways smile curling at her lips. "It's just, we could use some rest... Perhaps in your attic room? We do not wish to disturb anyone, if you know what I mean?"

With that she placed her hand on Vilkas' knee,at the precise moment that the warrior had taken a full mouthful of the questionable mead. He hoped that he had managed to disguise his near choking as a minor fit of coughing, but the barkeep did not seem convinced. She narrowed her bright eyes, relenting only when Myrna's hand had travelled further up his thigh than anyone could deem proper. Vilkas knew it was only play-acting, but he could not convince his body of the insincerity of her touch. Once again he thanked the Divines for his kilt and the sins it could hide from the world.

"I see," said Delphine, drawing her eyes away from the scandalous display before her. "Well, we do not have an attic room, but if your husband and yourself can make do with the room on the left, I assure you it will be well suited to your purposes."

_Husband. _Yet again someone had made an assumption about their relationship, however this time it suited Myrna not to argue. "Much obliged. What do we owe you?"

"Ten Septims," said the barkeep, putting down her cloth. "This way."

They slid off their stools and followed her to the room she had mentioned. It was as she said, on the left, and furnished with little more than a double bed and a dilapidated wardrobe, neither of which seemed large enough to harbour Thalmor assassins, at least. Myrna took some gold from the purse at her belt, and upon receiving it the woman made a hasty exit, as if afraid they were likely to go about their business right before her if she lingered. Vilkas might have laughed, if Myrna had not seated herself heavily upon the straw mattress of the bed, slumping over her knees with a frustrated grunt that gave way to a sigh of despair.

Vilkas did not know where to begin. Her anger he could weather, confusion - he could offer advice, if there was some to give. To see her so downcast tugged at his heart, and he wished it was in his power to cheer her. Farkas could have managed it, were he here. Perhaps she should not have been so stubborn and allowed his brother to trade places with him, as he had asked. With no other option, Vilkas maintained his respectful distance and cleared his throat.

"Harbinger...?"

"I'm sorry," she announced, sinking her face into her gloved hands. "I should never have done that. I should never have touched you like that after you... It was beyond inappropriate." She paused, taking a deep shuddering breath. "I just thought we might be more believable, if we pretended to be a couple."

"I do not mind," Vilkas answered, his voice level. Myrna looked up at him, her expression one of disbelief, and he could not hold back the rumble of a chuckle that sounded deep within his throat. "Truly, I don't. In the line of duty, I can think of worse experiences. And it it helps at all, I thought you were very believable."

Myrna looked away sharply, feeling the blush in her cheeks. She could not smile, _would not _smile. Their business here was serious, and so should it remain.

"Well whatever that woman believes about us, it seems like it's all for nothing," she sighed. "There is no attic room. The horn isn't here. This has all been a waste of time - whoever wrote that note has played us both for fools... But what I can't understand is _why_?"

With that she rose to her feet, pacing from one end of the room to the other, tearing open the wardrobe and finding it empty save for a pair of moths that fluttered towards the feeble candlelight as they made their bid for freedom. Myrna hadn't known what exactly she had expected to find within, an answer, or even a clue. The sight of nothing was infuriating. The whole damn quest was infuriating. Myrna slammed the door back with a grunt, whereupon it bounced back on its rusty hinges and sprang open again. Myrna was about ready to tear the thing apart when Vilkas caught her arm, turning her to face him.

"Does it matter?" he asked, holding her gently but firmly. Not a hug, but the best he could do. "The Greybeards may have sent you to fetch that artefact, the horn... But what does it even mean, when you think of it? You are the _Dragonborn_, Myrna. The hero of Skyrim! Do you think Alduin cares about a warhorn, a stupid piece of ivory, when it is _you _that stands between him and the end of all things?" Myrna's lips parted, but if she had a mind to argue Vilkas would not grant her the opportunity. "I know when the day comes, you will _fight, _Myrna. You will fight and you will win."

His eyes told her he believed it. Myrna swallowed hard. If someone had told her six months ago that she would be she would be in this position, with _Vilkas _of all people providing words of comfort she would have laughed and told them they were mad. So much had changed between them in these last few weeks; whether for worse or for better she could not say. She owed her life to this man twice over so far... If it were not for him she would have failed in her duty long ago. He gave her strength simply by being there; her faithful Shield-brother, friend and confidante even though she knew he desired more than she could give.

She didn't dare look up to meet his eyes. Instead she focused on the shape of his jaw, handsome and strong beneath the dark stubble that already adorned his skin. Vilkas was so different from Ulfric Stormcloak, both in looks and in character. They were almost polar opposites, surely she couldn't be attracted to both of them... And yet...

Without meaning to, Myrna allowed her eyes wander to his lips; remembering their softness, and how gentle he had been when he had kissed her. Had she been too hasty in spurning his affections? Myrna shook herself mentally, wrenching her gaze away before she was tempted to do something stupid - something they would both likely regret in the end.

She should never have had that second cup of wine.

Vilkas realised he still had hold of her, and though he loosened his grip on her wrist he could not bring himself to let go. The way Myrna had been looking at him, those beautiful eyes gazing up at him from beneath their dark lashes, her bottom lip drawn between her teeth, biting down ever so slightly... She was so close he could smell the sweet fragrance of her perfumed soap upon her skin; and in that stolen moment he had perfectly forgotten the very reason they were there.

The turn of the door handle alerted them both, the grim reality of their situation crashing down upon them like a wave. Whatever confused feelings lay between them now, they were sitting ducks here in this room, well and truly backed against the poorly-mortared wall. Within a blink of an eye both Companions had drawn their blades, ready to strike at the intruder as soon as they crossed the threshold of the door; be they man, mer or something other.

Delphine the barkeep regarded them coolly, looking for all the world as if she had not noticed the weapons pointing in her direction. She stepped into the room with her blonde head held high, clutching something tight in her hands as she ducked under the blade of Vilkas' sword. In these close quarters Myrna could see the woman clearly, see that the lines upon her face were not just those of age but scars of battle. The flesh that showed beneath her simple blue dress was much the same, marked with long-healed slashes and welts that were silver against the pale whiteness of her skin.

Myrna allowed her arms to slacken, her blades falling to point aimlessly at the stone floor. Delphine was no more a country innkeeper than Myrna was herself.

She was a warrior.


	29. Chapter 29

**A/N: I, er, borrowed some game dialogue for this chapter. Hopefully it all makes sense. I promise the smut is coming eventually... I think when I finally get that chapter posted up I'm going to smash a chair and party like a Stormcloak. Hello to new followers, many many thanks to my lovely reviewers, you super people :) I'm not at home to Mr Writer's block... though he keeps threatening me with a visit.**

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><p>"So you're the Dragonborn I've been hearing so much about," Delphine announced. The barkeep's eyes were bright, her voice clear and commanding. "I bet you're looking for this."<p>

Myrna took the item she thrust into her palms. It was a piece of mammoth tusk, worn and yellowed in its considerable age, decorated with Draconic inscription. Scant slivers of gold leaf remained upon its surface, but there was no denying what it was - the horn of Jurgen Windcaller.

"But... What..." Myrna stuttered, turning it over in her hands. "How did you get this?"

"All will be explained," the woman assured, her lips spreading in what almost became a smile. "Follow me."

Without giving them time to consider or confer the barkeep turned on her heel, striding out of the room and into the common room of the inn. Myna glanced at Vilkas, who had not yet returned his sword to its sheath, and with a half-shrug she went after the Breton woman, leaving Vilkas to reluctantly follow suit. This situation seemed wrong to him. This woman, Delphine, had been running the inn that last time he had supped here, he was sure of it. She must be deep in someone's pocket to play the harmless innkeeper for so long, when it was obvious now that she was anything but. Whatever she was, whoever she belonged to, she was still only one woman, and while Vilkas made the effort to shoulder his longsword he did not lower his guard.

Delphine led them into another bedroom on the opposite side of the inn, decorated far more lavishly than the room they had been rented. A thick green woolen bedspread lay upon the furs of the single bed, and a handsome carved wardrobe stood at the side of the room.

"Close the door," Delphine commanded, and Myrna turned to Vilkas expectantly. Despite his misgivings he did as the woman asked; unless there was someone hidden beneath the bed, they still happily outmatched her at two to one, should it have come down to numbers.

With the door closed and bolted Delphine turned her attention to the wardrobe, throwing its doors open wide. What lay within was not a person, but a passage; and Delphine beckoned to the Companions to follow her down the steps and into the secret room within. Myrna's eyes were wide with amazement. To think all this lay below the little inn in Riverwood, that she had passed by so many moons ago and thought so little of! Vilkas followed a pace or two behind her, his features impassive, taking in the many blades in the racks at the sides of the room as they gleamed in the lamplight. There were books as well, many more than even his heavy-laden shelves held at Jorrvaskr, and maps; the largest of which was spread across the table that the innkeeper now leaned upon, that catlike half-smile still present on her face.

"Now we can talk," Delphine purred. She fixed Myrna with a lengthy stare, taking stock of her from her boots upwards. Under such scrutiny Myrna felt suddenly naked, only just managing to keep her expression neutral as Delphine's gaze fell again upon her eyes. "The Greybeards seem to think you're the Dragonborn," she said flatly. "I hope they're right."

"They are right," Vilkas answered, narrowing his eyes at the woman. "Myrna has the gift of the Voice. I have seen it myself."

"Is that so?" The innkeeper replied, amused. "And yet you jump in before she has chance to speak. Any fool with the aptitude and patience can learn the Way of the Voice, Companion. Ulfric Stormcloak is proof enough of that."

Myrna winced at the sound of the name but held firm, keeping her eyes fixed upon the woman's face. "It is true. I am the Dragonborn. I fought the dragon Mirmulnir and took his soul, though I confess I do not know how I did it."

She could feel the dragon slithering in her soul now, though his scathing words could no longer penetrate her heart. Standing straight Delphine regarded her again, as if staring harder into her eyes would somehow catch her in a lie. Finally satisfied, the woman grinned again, and Myrna felt her own mouth twitch upwards in a small smile.

"Very well Myrna," Delphine said, testing her name on her tongue. "I apologise for my... underhanded means of getting you here. You can't be too careful in Skyrim these days. Thalmor spies are everywhere."

"The Thalmor are involved in this?" Myrna replied, her fingers reaching for the handles of her blades instinctively. "Are they the reason the dragons returned?"

Delphine leaned against the table once more, tapping a long finger against the side of her jaw in thought. "It is merely a suspicion of mine. The Thalmor stood to lose a great deal if Jarl Ulfric had died at Helgen; it was most fortuitous that a dragon intervened when it did."

Myrna cast her mind back to that day, recalling how she had stood before the block, hands bound and awaiting her death. It did not matter to the Imperials that she was innocent of the crime they accused her of, nor had the apology of the man calling himself Hadvir mattered much to her in turn. Her life had never been an easy one, but her skill in stealth and swordplay provided her with a better means of making a living than some were forced to endure. Such skills tended to attract the attention of those with less than scrupulous motives, however, and while their gold was good Myrna often found herself running from one person or another, never sleeping in the same place twice and always fearful of a blade in the dark. It was a lonely life, and an end at the headsman's blade had seemed as good as any, until some combination of fate and the Divines' good humour had saved her and given her a reason to survive. Before the horror of the great black dragon, Myrna could remember the tall, golden-skinned woman who had been there, watching over the proceedings. Her robes were unmistakeably those of the Thalmor, but it had not occurred to Myrna at all to question the reason the elves were there. Myrna did not know what had become of the Altmer woman once Alduin had razed the village to the ground, but she could not remember seeing her golden face amongst the bodies...

"The reason I have brought you here," Delphine continued, snapping Myrna back from her thoughts, "is because I belong to a group that's been looking for you... well, someone like you, for a very long time. _If _you really are the Dragonborn, that is. I need to make sure I can trust you. I did not count on you being accompanied by a bodyguard, or whomever this man might be to you."

Her eyes darted to Vilkas, who returned the look with a sour one of his own. Before he could retort, Myrna answered instead.

"Vilkas is my Shield-brother, he goes where I go. I am Harbinger of the Companions as well as the Dragonborn."

Delphine glanced between them both, her amusement lighting her face for a mere second before seriousness took over once more. "My, but you have been busy. I trust your duties as Harbinger will not distract you from your path as the Dragonborn? You bear a great responsibility upon your shoulders, if you are who you say you are."

"I _know_," Myrna spat. It was enough that she had finally accepted it; she did not need reminding. And nor did she need this woman to speculate whether she was truly Dragonborn or not. She had proved herself over and over, now they were just wasting time, and exactly who was this woman, Delphine, to doubt her? Vilkas was apparently thinking much the same as she; the warrior's arms were folded across his chest firmly as Delphine turned to him, his features furrowed into a deepening scowl.

"And you are prepared to fight dragons alongside your leader?" she inquired.

"I would fight the Daedra of Oblivion themselves for Myrna. I have sworn it."

His answer seemed to give Delphine pause. Her eyes flickered between Vilkas an Myrna, just for a second, then she nodded. "Very well, another blade is no bad thing." She turned back to Myrna. "The dragons have not just returned to Skyrim, they are being brought back to life. They were killed long ago by the dragonslayers of old - my predecessors. The Dragonborn is the ultimate dragonslayer; the only one who can permanently defeat a dragon by consuming its soul. You say you devoured the soul of Mirmulnir. I wish for you to prove that to me."

"And how am I to do that, exactly?" Myrna retorted, shifting angrily. "I feel I am having to 'prove myself' to everyone. You will not accept my voice as proof, so what am I to do? There have been no dragons in Skyrim since the attack on Whiterun. Am I to call forth a dragon from the void so that I can kill it before your eyes?"

"If you will allow me to explain," Delphine replied coolly, "I have been investigating the ancient burial sites of the dragons." She smoothed out the map on the table with her fingers, weighting it down at the edge with a heavy brass candlestick. "Here," she said, pointing, "is the burial mound of the dragon you call Mirmulnir, which was once thought to be lost to us. With the help of my contacts I have found it, and others like it, all empty. And I believe I know where the next dragon is due to rise. We're going to go there, and you're going to kill that dragon. After that, I will tell you anything you want to know."

Myrna felt her heart stutter. It had been months since she had last faced one of the beasts, and her victory there had been mostly due to the army that she had fought with. Was the strength of her Voice alone truly enough to bring down a legend? And could her blades even cut through the steely hide of a dragon? Mirmulnir would tell her no, but something inside her assured her that it could be done, if she was only prepared to take the risk. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Vilkas, standing still as a statue behind her. She knew even without looking that he was hanging on her answer, just as ready to follow her into the waiting jaws of death as he would be if she decided to ignore this madness and go home to Jorrvaskr. The latter was no option, unfortunately. If Delphine could help her against Alduin, then she must try.

"Fine," she said at last. "Where is the next dragon set to rise?"

"Kynesgrove," said Delphine, pointing again to the map. "If we can get there before it happens, we may be able to learn how to stop it."

"Kynesgrove?!" Vilkas exclaimed, stepping forward to peer at the map incredulously. "But, there's nothing there, barely even a village, why should a dragon be buried there?"

"Why should the dragons exist at all?" Delphine replied. "Kynesgrove is the place, I am sure of it. We have wasted enough time here already. If we are to get there on time, we must leave at once."

Myrna rubbed her forehead with the back of one of her gloves, biting back the sigh that threatened to leave her lips. She looked down upon the horn of Jurgen Windcaller, the horn of the legendary Master of the Voice that she now held in her own two hands. If she wasn't ready now, then she never would be.

"Right. Let's go kill a dragon."

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><p>Expecting only one adventurer, Delphine had only acquired two horses for the journey. It made little difference, for the horses of Skyrim were nothing if not sturdy beasts. Therefore the two Breton women rode double upon a sturdy grey charger, whilst Vilkas took the reins of the second horse, a bad-tempered black stallion by the name of Hervir. It had been a long time since Vilkas had been riding, and Hervir made sure he paid for it; flatly ignoring his commands in favour of picking his own pace and direction on the roads towards Kynesgrove.<p>

Vilkas had therefore been embarrassed when Delphine was forced to turn back for him, and even more so when he saw Myrna laughing as his horse bent his head to nibble the grass as if he had no rider at all. Myrna slid off her horse from behind Delphine, patted Hervir's neck affectionately, and within the space of a minute the beast was literally eating out of the palm of her hand once she had sweetened the offer with a biscuit. With the horse appeased, Myrna then reached up towards Vilkas, whom, once he had grasped what she was about, pulled her up and made room for her to sit before him on the saddle. Myrna had been too busy stroking Hervir's ebony mane to notice the way Vilkas had trembled at her sudden closeness. He didn't have the first idea what do with his hands. One of them held the reins, but the other should be doing something, he knew. If he wrapped it around her waist, would she see it as another unwanted advance or for what it was - his simple desire to keep her safe?

The decision was taken from him as Myrna assumed control of the reins. A squeeze of her knees set the horse speeding down the road as if it had been suddenly assaulted with a red hot poker, and Vilkas was forced to grab hold of Myrna's cloak to prevent himself from toppling. It turned out the Harbinger had a way with animals as certainly as she did with people, and was a fair rider besides; so fast was she that Delphine had to remind her that it was she that was supposed to be leading the way to Kynesgrove. After that she slowed, with Hervir responding obligingly to her every nudge and command as if she had always been his mistress. Whatever life Myrna had lived before she came to Skyrim, she had found the time to become a very skilled rider, and Vilkas found himself with nothing better to do than enjoy the ride, for the weather was pleasant and the company even more so - if one ignored Delphine's muttered warnings about the danger they were about to face. Of course it would be dangerous, they were going to fight a blasted _dragon_, not a flock of sheep, and when he pointed this out to her she had looked so angry he had thought she would leave them to fight it alone. Instead she rode on, her face set determinedly and spoke no more of it to either of them. Beneath the hands he had placed so gingerly around her waist for stability, Vilkas thought he could feel Myrna shaking inside her armour as she fought to keep her laughter silent.

Being so close to her was an exquisite torture. As much as he tried to keep his eyes on the scenery, to think about just about anything else, the fact was that the woman he loved was here in his arms, her back a hair's breadth from being flat against his chest. Her hood had fallen around her shoulders, the shrieking wind forcing her hair loose from its leather tie so that it flew back into his face. Vilkas could not bring himself to mind, too enraptured was he in the sweet scent of honey and apples... the scent that was _her,_ and had enamoured him from the first time he had sensed it as a wolf. His eyes fell upon her neck, the delicate curve of her shoulder beneath her leather cuirass, the milky flesh that was bared to the sharpness of the wind. The further they travelled into Eastmarch the sourer the weather had become, and as sleet began to fall in spatters around them Vilkas righted Myrna's hood to protect her from the cold.

They were less than half a mile from Kynesgrove when Delphine halted them. She slipped off the back of the mare, indicating that the Companions should do likewise. With stiffness in his legs from sitting so long Vilkas was glad to dismount, turning then to aid Myrna as she alighted from the saddle. The weather had graduated from merely unpleasant to utterly foul, the clouds above dark and ominous as thick flakes of snow fell to earth, coating everything in a blanket of white. The village was still visible owing to the lamps lighting the path, and there was no sign of a dragon at all.

Myrna scanned the sky for shadows, hoping against hope that Delphine had been wrong. Then she heard it. Overhead there came a terrible screech like a blade scraping against a steel shield, a sudden whoosh of air sending snow raining down upon them from the treetops above. Wings. It was here. _He _was here. She would recognise that awful noise anywhere. Alduin, the great black dragon of Helgen, awaited her in the village... She did not need to see him to know it was so. '_Hi los Sahlo,' _Mirmulnir whispered again, taking advantage of her fear and doubt to slink into her thoughts. '_You are weak, Soul-thief, and you will die..."_

"Leave the horses," Delphine commanded, snapping Myrna's attention from Mirmulnir's clutches. She had been so close to believing him, fighting an instinct to turn tail and run for her life in the opposite direction. She had thought the horses would do that very thing, but it seemed she had underestimated the horses of Skyrim, for although they pawed the ground nervously the pair stayed close and did not attempt to flee.

Vilkas had drawn his sword the moment he heard the scream of the dragon. Myrna looked up at him from beneath her hood, seeing no fear upon his face, merely grim determination as he followed Delphine's example of hunkering down low to the ground. He glared at the Breton woman expectantly from beneath dark brows, flecked white with flakes of snow.

"It seems your dragon is already awake. What now?"

Delphine answered his scowl with a grin, jabbing the point of her sword in Myrna's direction. "Ask your Dragonborn here. _I've _never fought a dragon before."

Myrna's heart sank as all eyes turned to her. "I've only fought _one _before!"

Vilkas heard the note of fear in her voice. Of course she was scared - he was scared too... who would not be, facing a dragon? Stronger than his fear was his desire to fight, to test his sword arm against a beast of legend, to be able to tell his brother that he had stood against a mighty dragon and lived. To hear there was no plan for the battle, however, unnerved him greatly. "And what did you do last time, Myrna?" he asked, trying not to sound as worried as he felt.

"Me? Nothing!" she insisted, clutching at her amulet of Talos with clumsy fingers. "I was part of the guard... We shot arrows at the thing and eventually it fell, then something happened after when it- when I..."

"Took it's soul," Delphine finished for her. She was squinting sharply at Myrna over her beaky nose, as if trying to work out whether she was telling the truth or not.

Myrna jutted her chin out defiantly. "Believe me or don't," she spat. "The thing died quickly once we had it on the ground. If we can destroy its wings, keep it grounded somehow, we might be in with a chance."

"And I'm no archer," Delphine replied. "It's not much of a plan, but it's better than nothing I suppose. I assume the beast is still roosting near the mound. Let us hope the villagers got to the mines in time."

Myrna reached for her bow, locking eyes with Vilkas, who swapped his blade for the longbow at his back. He looked as though he wanted to say something, and Myrna wondered whether he was about to shout at her, or at least make some cutting remark that she knew so little about her enemy. Instead the corners of his mouth turned upwards slightly, a small smile that lifted her spirits and warmed her heart. Vilkas believed in her. He trusted her, and if the Gods were merciful Myrna would not let him down.

Staying low they followed Delphine into the heart of the village. It was eerily quiet, the only signs of life the various assortment of tools left scattered upon the road, abandoned by their owners as they sought shelter in the mines. A cart of cabbages was overturned, and a chicken scuttled past them through the snow, but other than that there was nothing to suggest a dragon attack was imminent. Nothing was on fire. Nothing had been Shouted apart. If they had not heard the screeching themselves, the adventurers might have been forgiven for thinking there was nothing amiss in Kynesgrove at all.

Delphine led them up a hill, and it was there that they saw it. Swooping down amid the dense snow clouds was the unmistakeable shadow of a dragon, heading towards a large mound of stones set into the earth. Apparently it had failed to notice them as it passed and, defying every instinct they had, the trio sunk down even lower on their haunches to creep even closer, to watch and wait.

Myrna's felt fear grip her throat like an icy claw. The advantage of surprise was no comfort to her. To look upon Alduin was akin to looking upon Death itself. Even from such a distance she could see his burning red eyes, the wicked sharpness of his talons and horns, the vastness of his leathery wings as dark as the night sky. If she fought him now and won it would be over, her duty to the world finished. But if she were to lose... the consequences were too terrible to even think of.

Alduin hovered above the burial mound, the beating of his wings sending the snow flying in all directions and providing cover to the warriors as they huddled behind a small stone wall, watching his every move. Still he did not seem to have noticed them. The great dragon screeched again, a sound that was almost deafening in such close proximity; Myrna grit her teeth against the headache that threatened, watching and waiting for her enemy to land at last.

But Alduin did not land. Instead, he began to speak.

"_Sahloknir, ziil gro dovah ulse!__Slen tiid vo__!"_

Myrna could not understand what he was saying, even with the knowledge of the Dragon Tongue she had stolen from Mirmulnir. _Sahloknir? _Phantom Sky Hunt? It made no sense to her, until the second voice answered.

"_Alduin, thuri! Boaan tiid vokriiha suleyksejun kruziik__?"_

The ground began to shudder and quake underfoot as the stones of the burial mound cracked and splintered across their surface. When they finally gave way another dragon emerged, dragging itself from its tomb as if it had hatched from a gigantic egg of earth and rock, fully formed and covered with deadly spikes from snout to serpent-like tail. This, Myrna realised too late, was Sahloknir.

"_Geh, Sahloknir, kaali mir.__" _Alduin replied, baring his teeth in what might have been a smile as his new ally spread out and stretched his wings. Then with a roar Alduin took to the sky, swooping in a wide arc over the village and wheeling back again, over the tops of the trees and then down, stopping in mid air a mere fifty feet from where the adventurers were keeping their vigil. Alduin's red eyes glowed bright through the falling snow. There was no hiding from him now. He had seen them.

"_Ful, losei Dovahkiin? __Zu'u koraav nid nol dov do hi.__"_

The wind from his wings buffeted them, the snow blinding as it fell into their eyes. Myrna forced herself to stand despite her fear, Mirmulnir's whispers loud in her ears. She wanted to run, but she would not. If this was her death, then she would not die cringing like a coward. Holding her bow-hand to her eyes against the snowflakes, she did not need to look to know Vilkas was standing beside her. A small sound to her right told her Delphine was standing with her too.

Alduin's eyes narrowed into slits of red. Myrna felt sure he was about to Shout them to flames, yet instead he spoke in the common tongue. "You do not even know our tongue, do you? Such arrogance, to dare take for yourself the name of Dovah." He bared his teeth at her once more, before issuing his orders.

"_Sahloknir, krii daar joorre."_


End file.
